#i see her and nod sagely like ‘that’s me’

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Harry's an Introvert

I mentioned some of it in a reblog here and here, but kinda wanted to give it its full post with more quotes from the books as evidence.

Becouse Harry was raised in a cupboard, pretending to not exist at the Dursleys. He isn't loud or talkative and he doesn't like interacting with most people (some characters, like Sirius, are an exception). I want to bring up some quotes to prove it because Harry is not a boisterous jock, that was James Potter, not my boy Harry and I will never tire of talking about him.

Exhibit A: He doesn't really care for people beyond his immediate circle

I know this fandom jokes about how Harry doesn't know people he went to school with for 6 years and they take it as a sign Harry is unobservant, but that is not the case. Harry is incredibly observant, he just doesn't actually care about most people. He'd rather stick to his close group of friends and he has no desire to know/speak to anyone outside of this group. There are only 40 students in Harry's year, ~300 in all of Hogwarts, and Harry still doesn't even know all his year or all 70 Gryffindors:

together with a weedy-looking boy Hermione whispered was called Theodore Nott.

(OotP, Ch26)

“This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you’ve come across each other — ? No?” McLaggen, a large, wiry-haired youth, raised a hand, and Harry and Neville nodded back at him. “— and this is Marcus Belby, I don’t know whether — ?” Belby, who was thin and nervous-looking, gave a strained smile.

(HBP, Ch7)

Exhibit B: He isn't a yapper

Even in his own friend group, Harry doesn't actually speak much. Throughout the early books especially, most of what Harry thinks stays in his head:

Harry didn’t say anything. He liked being back on speaking terms with Ron too much to speak his mind right now — but he somehow thought that Hermione had gotten the point much better than Ron had.

(GoF, Ch23)

He often doesn't say anything to keep up the peace between him Ron and Hermione.

He actually finds Ron and Hermione's constant bantering exhausting at times. He is a quiet introvert who's friends with two certified yappers:

Harry was too used to their [Ron and Hermione's] bickering to bother trying to reconcile them; he felt it was a better use of his time to eat his way steadily through his steak-and-kidney pie, then a large plateful of his favorite treacle tart.

(OotP, Ch11)

While he likes Ron and Hermione, Harry doesn't like their loud bickering and he finds it annoying:

“Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots,” said Ron sagely. “Anyway, I’ve always thought Dumbledore was cracked trusting Snape, where’s the evidence he ever really stopped working for YouKnow-Who?” “I think Dumbledore’s probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn’t share it with you, Ron,” snapped Hermione. “Oh, shut up, the pair of you,” said Harry heavily, as Ron opened his mouth to argue back. Hermione and Ron both froze, looking angry and offended. “Can’t you give it a rest?” he said. “You’re always having a go at each other, it’s driving me mad.”

(OotP, Ch12)

Exhibit C: He doesn't speak up in class

We basically never see Harry raise his hand to answer a question in class. Usually he needs to be prompted by a teacher to answer:

“This means,” said Professor Lupin, choosing to ignore Neville’s small sputter of terror, “that we have a huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it, Harry?” Trying to answer a question with Hermione next to him, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet with her hand in the air, was very off-putting, but Harry had a go.

(PoA, Ch7)

Even when Harry knows the answer to a question or can guess it like in the above quote, he never raises his hand to answer. He usually only answers if prompted by the teacher. Lupin is actually doing something really good here as a teacher. He knows Harry is likely to be able to know the answer so he forces him to participate because otherwise he won't. This is Lupin knowing how Harry is as a student — which is incredibly quiet.

The other teachers notice it too:

“Other teachers report that the boy is modest, likable, and reasonably talented. Personally, I find him an engaging child.”

(DH, Ch33)

Modest and likable, in this case, translates to never talking except to make maybe snigger at a joke Ron made or talk when prompted. Dumbledore only finds him engaging because he talks to Harry near the Mirror of Erised. Most teachers probably barely recognize Harry's voice that first year.

Other characters are surprised Harry is talking back to Umbridge, not just because of what he's saying but because he's actually speaking in class:

Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk again. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated.

(OotP, Ch12)

Something Harry Potter just doesn't really do if the teacher doesn't force him.

That being said, even when teachers force him to speak, even in that first Potions class with Snape, Harry being Harry is unwilling to show weakness. So he sasses Snape and comes off as confident. Because while he doesn't like talking in class, if he does, he'd do so confidently (at least in appearance).

Exhibit D: When upset, he talks even less

When Harry's upset — as in stressed or sad — he talks even less than normal. His coping mechanism for sadness is to burrow into himself and not talk to anyone:

I’m the weapon, Harry thought, and it was as though poison were pumping through his veins, chilling him, bringing him out in a sweat as he swayed with the train through the dark tunnel. [...] “Are you all right, Harry, dear?” whispered Mrs. Weasley, leaning across Ginny to speak to him as the train rattled along through its dark tunnel. “You don’t look very well. Are you feeling sick?” They were all watching him. He shook his head violently and stared up at an advertisement for home insurance. [...] “You look ever so pale. . . . Are you sure you slept this morning? You go upstairs to bed right now, and you can have a couple of hours’ sleep before dinner, all right?” He nodded; here was a ready-made excuse not to talk to any of the others, which was precisely what he wanted, so when she opened the front door he proceeded straight past the troll’s leg umbrella stand and up the stairs and hurried into his and Ron’s bedroom.

(OotP, Ch23)

“How’re you feeling?” asked Hermione. “Fine,” said Harry stiffly. “Oh, don’t lie, Harry,” she said impatiently. “Ron and Ginny say you’ve been hiding from everyone since you got back from St. Mungo’s.” “They do, do they?” said Harry, glaring at Ron and Ginny. Ron looked down at his feet but Ginny seemed quite unabashed. “Well, you have!” she said. “And you won’t look at any of us!”

(OotP, Ch23)

He [Harry] and Hermione ate breakfast in silence. Hermione’s eyes were puffy and red; she looked as if she had not slept. They packed up their things, Hermione dawdling.

(DH, Ch16)

Hermione had taken his hand again and was gripping it tightly. He could not look at her, but returned the pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the night air, trying to steady himself, trying to regain control. He should have brought something to give to them, and he had not thought of it, and every plant in the graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Hermione raised her wand, moved it in a circle through the air and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before them. Harry caught it and laid it on his parents’ grave. As soon as he stood up he wanted to leave. He did not think he could stand another moment there. He put his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and she put hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and walked away through the snow, past Dumbledore’s mother and sister, back toward the dark church and the out-of-sight kissing gate.

(DH, Ch16)

The sea was rushing against the rock somewhere nearby; Harry listened to it while the others talked, discussing matters in which he could take no interest, making decisions, Dean carried the injured Griphook into the house, Fleur hurrying with them; now Bill was really knowing what he was saying. [...] “I want to do it properly,” were the first words of which Harry was fully conscious of speaking. “Not by magic. Have you got a spade?” [...] Harry lost track of time. He knew only that the darkness had lightened a few degrees when he was rejoined by Ron and Dean. “How’s Hermione?” “Better,” said Ron. “Fleur’s looking after her.” Harry had his retort ready for when they asked him why he had not simply created a perfect grave with his wand, but he did not need it. They jumped down into the hole he had made with spades of their own and together they worked in silence until the hole seemed deep enough.

(DH, Ch24)

(I'll note I love that Ron and Hermione understand that sometimes Harry needs to just be around them silently. That sometimes he needs to not talk about it)

And in GoF, the fact he talks to Sirius about what upsets him is special. It's a testament to how much Harry trusts Sirius. He literally says he spoke more to Sirisu in that half an hour than he had in days:

“I’m —” For a second, Harry tried to say “fine” — but he couldn’t do it. Before he could stop himself, he was talking more than he’d talked in days — about how no one believed he hadn’t entered the tournament of his own free will, how Rita Skeeter had lied about him in the Daily Prophet, how he couldn’t walk down a corridor without being sneered at — and about Ron, Ron not believing him, Ron’s jealousy . . .

(GoF, Ch19)

Exhibit E: He hates getting a lot of attention

The prophet and Snape like to paint Harry as an arrogant attention seeker, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Not only is Harry not arrogant and has a pretty low self esteem, he despises getting a lot of attention and wishes to curse and hex people who look at him for too long because it makes him uncomfortable:

It was a state of nervousness so advanced that he wondered whether he mightn’t just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start trying to curse everyone in sight.

(GoF, Ch20)

People stared shamelessly as he approached. They even pressed their faces against the windows of their compartments to get a look at him. He had expected an upswing in the amount of gaping and gawping he would have to endure this term after all the “Chosen One” rumors in the Daily Prophet, but he did not enjoy the sensation of standing in a very bright spotlight.

(HBP, Ch7)

The third group had a pileup halfway around the pitch. Most of the fourth group had come without broomsticks. The fifth group were Hufflepuffs. “If there’s anyone else here who’s not from Gryffindor,” roared Harry, who was starting to get seriously annoyed, “leave now, please!” [...] Pleased though he was with his choices, Harry had also shouted himself hoarse at the many complainers and was now enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters. “That’s my final decision and if you don’t get out of the way for the Keepers I’ll hex you,” he bellowed.

(HBP, Ch11)

He hates the attention he's getting and the more traumatised and angry he gets, the louder he becomes because he needs an outlet.

Further Notes

While he is quiet, he isn't a pushover. As I mentioned here, his quiet often comes off as arrogance rather than meekness. He's quiet in a way that seems mysterious and intelligent rather than dorky and awkward. Even when he does act and feel awkward in many social situations, many people just don't read him as awkward. Like, he's awkward to himself inside his head, but most people who don't know him don't think about it that way:

“Mine was pretty quiet,” said Cho. For some reason, she was looking rather embarrassed. “Erm . . . there’s another Hogsmeade trip next month, did you see the notice?” “What? Oh no, I haven’t checked the notice board since I got back. . . .” “Yes, it’s on Valentine’s Day. . . .” “Right,” said Harry, wondering why she was telling him this. “Well, I suppose you want to — ?” “Only if you do,” she said eagerly. Harry stared. He had been about to say “I suppose you want to know when the next D.A. meeting is?” but her response did not seem to fit. “I — er —” he said. “Oh, it’s okay if you don’t,” she said, looking mortified. “Don’t worry. I-I’ll see you around.” She walked away. Harry stood staring after her, his brain working frantically. Then something clunked into place. “Cho! Hey — CHO!” He ran after her, catching her halfway up the marble staircase. “Er — d’you want to come into Hogsmeade with me on Valentine’s Day?” “Oooh, yes!” she said, blushing crimson and beaming at him. “Right . . . well . . . that’s settled then,” said Harry

(OotP, Ch24)

This is Harry in his most awkward I think. He reads the situation completely incorrectly. But, notice he doesn't ask Cho about the D.A. meeting, it's only in his head, outwardly, it looks to her like he was trying to let her down gently, not like he had no idea what she was talking about. And when he does ask her later, she's the blushing mess, not him. Even if Harry stammers a bit, he gets his point across with a similar level of awkwardness to Cho. It's the typical awkwardness of a 15-year-old asking a girl on a date for the first time and not anything special or beyond the norm. I'd actually say he's more confident about it than many of the guys I went to school with.

TL;DR

He doesn't enjoy talking to most people, but he isn't shy or meek. Nor is he an awkward bubbling fool. He's just an introvert who often rather not to talk to people. But he comes across as a confident quiet, not a shy quiet, because when he does speak — as unoften as it is for people who aren't his friends or Sirius — it's loud, and clear, and confidant.

[wri0thesley]

Funny how just three out of those guys share some traits.

In case you haven't found the others:

Smoking man is Sir Crocodile from One piece. He is, in my opinion, not that bad when you compare it to other main evil guys from the anime. Yes, he might have driven a country into poverty to arouse a civil war, but that's about it! At least he went to prison... then escaped alongside Luffy.

The second is, as you mentioned, Muzan from Demon Slayer. He is a piece of work and even though his design and voice are cool, the way he carries himself is quite unpleasant, though it fits his character. Man can change gender too, in case you haven't seen Lady Muzan. I also suggest looking into the hashiras, especially my man Giyuu 💙

The third one is Dimitri from Fire Emblem Three Houses and the best one out of the bunch. That's actually his Timeskip portrait. The premise of the game is about the protagonist arriving to a monastery and working as a professor with their father, who serves as a mercenary. The first part is with the protagonist choosing a one house out of the three (hence the name) to teach, and Dimitri is the leader of the Blue Lions. Everyone in that monastery has a massive luggage of locked trauma, so maybe you could try and find a video about the game without the battles, if they prove to be too boring and long for you. Or just watch the support conversations with Byleth and between them to get a feel on the character. I also suggest looking into Ferdinand and Claude from the same game, or better yet open the wiki and look into the characters' portrait and see if someone else catches your eye.

The last one I believe is Aizen from Bleach. The only thin I can say about him is 'all according to the keikaku' jokes as I never got to his big reveal in the anime waaay back when I used to watch.

Sorry for the long text! If someone already messaged you about their source or you found them, you can delete this!

3/4 villains it seems… i am a simple person. i see a design i like, i nod to myself and feel attached to them whenever i see them!! demon slayer guy would not stop coming up in my pinterest searches whilst i was pinning stuff for some yandere and oc boards and i guess i simply saw him so much my brain said ‘that one’!!

and please do not be sorry anon i appreciate it and you!!! i do not think i will investigate these franchises - at least not for a while fhfhgh (sweating looking at all those one piece episodes) but it is nice to know all the same!!

[bi-writes]

Is it possible for Simon's MOB request him to dress up as Ghost for Halloween? and of course she will wear whatever Simon want her to

But if you don't want to bring Ghost into MOB's universe, just skip this. We completely understand 😉

it's about time, huh?

mail-order bride (18+)

when simon comes home after a long two weeks away, he's pleasantly surprised by what waits for him. there's carved pumpkins lined up on the porch ascending up the steps, and there's candles lit inside, making them flicker. along the porch railing, there's garlands with orange lights, and there's a black feathered wreath on the door. simon smiles under his mask, even wider once he sees the cats staring at him from the window. their tails are swishing, and he waves at them before putting the key into the door and coming inside.

it smells like pine. there's candles on everywhere, making the entire living room glow a soft orange.

all the throw pillows are different. they've been changed. they are made of velvet and linen, with some of them having fall prints on them like black cats and pumpkins and autumn-colored checkers. there's pumpkin motifs and leaves everywhere, like all the colors everywhere have been changed to browns, reds, and sage greens. you poke your head out from behind the fridge, smiling as you see simon by the door, taking off his boots and jacket. he showered before coming back from work; you can tell because he's not wearing the skull balaclava, and he has regular clothes on.

"hey," you greet him softly, waving. "you're in early."

"couldn't wait," simon murmurs. "had to come see my girls."

you snort, rolling your eyes, but you shut the fridge before coming into the living room. you wrap your arms around his neck easily, tugging him close as you snatch his mask off and kiss him softly.

"i missed you, simon," you whisper between kisses, and he wraps those big arms around you tight, cradling the back of your head as he kisses you back.

"i missed ya more."

you giggle when he picks you up a little, turning you in a little circle before setting you back down. it baffles you how easily he takes your weight; barely even grunts, just smooths his hands down your thighs and picks you up with that wicked, crooked smile.

"loved wot ya did wit' the house, luv," simon adds, chuckling low. your eyes light up, and you look around, beaming at the cozy couch you've made up with the new blankets and pillows you had bought. you giggle, looking back at him, cupping his cheeks to bring him closer to you.

"the kettle's on. why don't i make you some tea? we have so much to catch up on," you coo, and simon blushes, easily, and you giggle when he tries to look away. "simon!"

he slips a hand up your skirt to stop your laughing. you gasp, your breath caught in your throat, and simon hums as he kisses along your jaw, chapped lips sucking at the skin until you're liquid in his arms.

"mmm...a cuppa sounds nice, baby," simon chuckles in your ear, and you nod, pulling away slowly. he squeezes your ass gently before letting you go, kissing under your ear before he collapses onto the couch, sinking into it. he grabs one of the thick new blankets thrown over it, and you come into the room a few minutes later with his mug of tea and a big smile on your face. "oh, ya didn't have ta do tha'...i-i meant--"

"i know what you meant, simon," you say softly, setting it down next to him. "i wanted to, okay?"

he smiles a little, nodding, and then he reaches for your hand to pull you into his lap.

"okay, hafta catch up, luv," simon sighs. "tell me wot happened while i was gone. want ta know everythin'."

you shrug, leaning back against his chest.

"did a lot of shopping," you tell him. "a lot. sorry about the bills, simon."

"don't worry about the bills," he says firmly, and you smile a little when he takes your hands and squeezes them gently. "tell me more."

"i bought mostly stuff for the house," you smile. "all the halloween stuff. i left a few pumpkins for us though. that we can do together."

"mmm. i'd like tha'."

"and i bought...some halloween costumes," you finish, looking over your shoulder at him. he raises a brow, grinning, and he tilts his head to the side.

"you wanna dress up, tha' it, luv?"

"well...i bought a lot of costumes for me," you continue. "i...i was hoping...that..."

simon nudges you a little. you swallow, squeezing his hands, and he kisses your shoulder gently.

"well...i was hoping you could put on your..." you clear your throat, "i mean...you could be...ghost...and i-i could be--"

"ya want me ta wear my mask?" simon asks, leaning in a little. he puts his face into the crook of your shoulder, and you shiver a little. "want me to be ghost...not simon...tha' it, baby?"

you can't meet his eyes. you shrink a little in his lap, and he buries his face further, sucking gently on the curve of your jaw.

"woteva ya want, swee'eart," simon mutters. "can have woteva ya want."

"simon--" you gasp, arching your back, and he wraps a strong arm around your middle and holds you against him.

"shhh--" simon quiets you. "'s olright. why don't ya wait 'ere for me, aye? sit right there, lookin' so pretty..." he wraps a big hand around your throat, holding you there, squeezing gently. "why don't ya sit there, and i'll go put somethin' on, and we can practice?"

"p-practice?"

"tha's right," simon licks his lips. "got to see if our costumes will look nice together, don't we? got to make sure we match."

"y-yeah..."

"will ya wait 'ere, swee'eart? wait right 'ere for me?"

"yes. yeah. yes, simon." you're breathless, shaking practically, and simon tucks you against the couch before grabbing his bag and heading into the bedroom. he gives you a wink before the door shuts, and you put a hand over your chest and breathe deeply as you settle there.

your husband never fails to make your head spin. he occupies your every thought; the way he loves, the manner in which he takes care of you, the insatiable look in his eyes whenever his eyes are on you. never in your life have you ever been more at the center of someone else's world. never in your life has every word that leaves your mouth been so akin to some kind of revered gospel.

everything you say matters. nothing that you do can be wrong. nothing that you feel is ever dismissed, nothing that you want is ever not given to you, everything in your life is sunshine and rainbows and fuck, he's so fucking hot--

your brain goes fuzzy when the bedroom door opens again. it's someone you don't recognize, not really.

even when you've visited him on base, he somehow still maintains himself as simon in your presence. when you look into those eyes, you always recognize them. they are soft, they are kind, they are the ones you have always known.

whoever stands in front of you isn't someone you've met yet. he's taller, somehow. maybe it's the way he stands. feet spread apart in those steel-toed boots, cargos snug around his massive legs. your eyes start low, taking in the holsters that are positively squeezing his big thighs to his waist. mmm, his solid middle. that place that never gives, that feels full and warm when you've fed him a nice meal, now he uses it as his own personal armor. he wears a windbreaker under his tact vest, but he's pushed the sleeves up to his elbow, his tattoos on display. they've never looked so right on him until now. you follow the line of his chest to his face.

his face. his second skin. you've seen this mask before, that dirty skull that he never washes properly that frames his eyes, making him sunken and dead. he's smeared eye-black on under it, and his eyes are voids. they sink, the whites barely peeking through, and as you look at him, really look at him, you don't recognize what you see.

he's so big. he's never looked bigger. he takes up the entirety of the doorway, and you shift on the couch as you take in all of him this way.

it's like seeing someone new. it's like being married to two different men. it's simon, surely, somewhere under there, but whoever you're in the presence of isn't simon.

"hmm..." you giggle nervously, standing up. he narrows his eyes a little, flexing his hands in and out of fists, and you point to the bedroom behind him. "i'm...i'm gonna go get the costumes i bought. and...and we can pick one for me."

he blinks, but he says nothing. he walks slow, past you, and you hold his eyes as he does, and he holds yours. you turn to keep eye contact as he takes a seat on the couch, spreading his legs wide, resting his hands on his thighs. you swallow, nervous under his intense stare, and you hurry towards the bedroom to fish the costumes out of the closet.

you look at yourself in the mirror. you look frazzled. your entire body feels hot, too hot, and your palms are clammy. you wipe your face gently before going back into the living room, where ghost is waiting exactly where you left him.

it looks like he hasn't moved an inch.

you hold up a few of the hangers, showing off the outfits on them.

"o-okay, i got a few. some of them are...kind of dumb," you laugh nervously. you hold up a stupid nurse outfit. it's a short little dress that would show off your thighs and way too much cleavage, and ghost considers it for a few long moments before he shakes his head. you clear your throat, nodding. "yeah, this one was dumb."

you toss it aside, holding up another one. it's a fitted bodysuit with a matching witch's hat, and ghost shakes his head at this one as well. you toss it aside to show him the next. he turns down every single one. little red riding hood. alice in wonderland. even the cute little corset angel dress that you really thought would work.

you play with your fingers nervously, looking at the costumes that you've tossed over a chair. you frown a little, curling your toes, the picture of quietly frustrated as you think about what to say next. ghost sits there, unbothered, staring at you as if he's waiting for something. he blinks slow.

"i-i don't understand what you want," you whisper. "i...i thought you'd like at least one of them, i mean..." you run a hand over your face, shrugging. "what do you want me to wear, nothing? i--"

ghost tilts his head to the side, making your breath catch in your throat.

what do you want me to wear, nothing?

your lips part, and you take a few deep breaths. nothing. he wants you to wear nothing. simon--well, simon would say differently. simon would tell you to wear whatever you wanted. he'd tell you that you would look beautiful in every single one, and you think maybe he'd ask you to wear the nurse outfit just to be cheeky.

not ghost. ghost doesn't like the theatrics. ghost doesn't care for the game. he doesn't chase, everything he wants comes to him, or he makes it come to him. everything he desires ends up between his teeth, and that includes the woman that's wearing his fucking ring standing in front of him.

you take a timid step forward. he narrows his eyes under the mask, watching curiously, and when you make your way between his legs, he stares up at you, right into your eyes. you smile.

"you might be a ghost, but you're still my husband," you say softly. "so will you do the honors for me?"

ghost hums lowly. he reaches for you, gripping the base of your shirt, and he lifts it over your head with ease. he tugs your shorts down along with your panties as you unclasp your bra, and finally you see the flicker of something in those eyes when your tits fall in his line of sight.

there's a man under it all, as much as he would like to pretend like there isn't.

you lean over, putting your hands on either side of him on the back of the couch before straddling him. he grunts as you sit down, his hands finding your waist, and you lean forward enough to press your forehead to his.

ghost, like your simon, is insatiable. as soon as he has you this close, his hands are wandering. gloved hands slide up your slides and cup your tits, thumbs smoothing over your nipples until they're puckered and hard. once he's satisfied that you're shuddering enough, his hands fall to your thighs, spreading them apart even more before he grips both sides of your ass and squeezes, spreading them apart. the tease of his thumb over your ass makes your brain restart, and if he wasn't wearing the mask, you have a feeling you'd seek a sickening grin come over his face.

your mouth falls open, short breaths leaving you, and your eyes flutter closed when his hand slips between your thighs and cups you, big palm swallowing your folds as he puts two fingers to your clit and makes a nasty squelch as he moves them in firm circles.

"olready so wet..."

you squeak with surprise when he flips you over. your back slams against his chest, and it arches away from him as he plants your heels on either side of his thighs and wraps an arm around your middle to hold you against him.

"oh--ha--"

you reach back and grip the back of his neck for support as he puts his hand back where it belongs. two gloved fingers move in achingly slow circles through your folds, but like a teasing shit, he only skims your clit every so often. he leans in, humming against your ear, and he smacks his lips under the mask as he watches from over your shoulder.

"is it time?" he rasps against your cheek. "mmm...y'r husband neglects ya, huh?"

"w-what? no..."

"'s olright," ghost huffs. "i know. even pretty girls need to get fucked, tha's the truth, innit?"

"nnghh--"

"even sweet, pretty girls deserve a firm hand. don't hafta be so gentle...ya don't want gentle, aye? not wot ya need."

"just need you," you whine, and he paws at your tits hard as he sinks two fingers into you, right down to the last knuckle. you cry with relief, bucking your hips up against his hand, and he shushes you, shaking his head. ghost is simon's nasty alter ego, and you just want more and more and more of it.

"relax," he chuckles. fuck, he's so smug, it's infuriating and appealing all the same. "just need ta get ya nice and soft...need ya to open up fer me. won't be easy, takin' me."

like always with your husband, the one thing that is easy is not thinking at all. you sink, relaxing into his grip until there is no resistance from you. you don't have to have any thoughts when it comes to him. you can just be in the moment. you can float on this plane of nonexistence, this place that is just for you where you can just be and enjoy and think of nothing but how good you feel at this exact moment. he's got such big fingers--they curl, petting your insides, coaxing you to make all sorts of soft, pretty noises that just make him more desperate. he's hard against your ass; he chubbed up as soon as you sat in his lap, but now it's an unmistakable feeling.

he is everything you have ever wanted. he is more than you deserve. for your entire life, nothing has ever felt more precious. nothing has ever been more special. no one in the entire world has ever been so pervasive and demanding and thoughtful and wonderful, and you love him so much, you think you might die if you don't have him--

"i know," his voice brings you back. you're crying, tears wetting your face. you're shivering, holding onto him, babbling nonsense that sounds a lot like i love you and please and more. "i know, baby--it's so good, innit? feels so good, look at ya...look at ya, 's oll mine, 's mine, everythin' tha' y'are is mine."

everything you are is mine. skin, bone, and all.

"i'm gonna--no!" you seize when his fingers leave you. you miss them, turning around in his lap, cupping his cheeks, shaking your head, desperate desperate desperate. "don't take it from me, don't--!"

he hums. deep within his chest, something you feel trickling up his throat as your hands slide down his neck. you paw at the tactical vest, pulling on the straps, but ghost is something you cannot move. he's rigid, solid. nothing about him gives. even hard, pressed up against your cunt, he loses no control.

"gonna be good?" he asks. "hmm? gonna be good, and let me take care o' this, aye? can't 'ave ya coming on my fingers, swee'eart. first time ya come tonight, 's gonna be on my cock, y'hear tha'? say you hear me."

"i hear you--"

"tha's good, good, i like tha', like when ya do wot i ask. 's easy, innit? easy ta do wot i tell ya."

you can see those eyes. you're in love with those eyes. it doesn't matter how much he paints around them or how many layers he covers his face with, you will never forget them. you will know them when you close your eyes for the last time, and you will know them when you are born again, and you will spend eternity looking for them until you find the ones you know belong to you.

simon will wear a million faces, and you will know each and every one of them, just like you know this one, even the one you can't see.

simon makes other men so inferior. ghost makes them infinitely obsolete.

"so pretty, i've got such a pretty wife," ghost mutters. "did good, didn't i? gettin' myself such a nice girl. a messy girl." you're drooling as he lifts his hips, undoing his jeans with one wet, gloved hand. the zipper comes down, and your eyes fall as you watch him shove the denim just below his balls. "fuck--so full, baby, huh? won't last if y'keep lookin' at me tha' way, close y'r mouth."

you giggle a little. it escapes you without you even thinking, and when ghost tilts his head to the side, you're caught in it. he's about to fuck you for the very first time. he's about to eat, like he's never eaten before. you're about to lose your fucking mind, that's for certain, and nothing about it scares you.

simon might not be here right now, but ghost still knows what you are to him. he's going to take care of you. he loves you.

you cradle his head when he turns you in his lap. you clutch onto the back of his mask, lowering yourself in his arms as you press your lips to his over the mask. your shuddering breaths make him groan, and he hisses when you use one hand to slip his cock between your thighs, rocking your hips to coat him in slick. the bulbous head catches between your ass, and you lick over his jaw as you draw your hips back, meeting his eyes again.

you never want to know another man. even if they take him from you, even if someone manages to put a bullet in him, you'll never be with anyone else. this is it, the end all be all.

"not supposed t'think," ghost tells you. "y'r too pretty t'think."

your lashes flutter, and he grins under the mask.

"just the tip?" he teases. you press your forehead to his, shaking a little, and you nod your head. you take it nice and slow. he hitches you high up on his lap, on your knees, and you're a whimpering mess when he pushes the fat tip inside of you. you rock your hips, feeding yourself more, and ghost leans his head back when he feels you squeezing and squeezing and squeezing as you take just a little more of him, little by little. "don't need ta work ya open when y'r cunt's beggin' for it, innit?"

you squeeze his broad shoulders, leaning all your weight on him as you sit down on his cock. both of you groan, finally one, and you push his mask up to seal a kiss as you feel him throbbing as he touches deep.

"i love you so much," you whisper between kisses, "but i've been waiting t-too long for this."

"don't worry," ghost mutters. "there'll be time f'nice 'n sweet later. i know wot y'need."

and fuck, he certainly does.

ghost has you propped up underneath him when he fucks you for the first time. he shoved a few pillows under your hips, and the angle has your eyes in the back of your head as he indulges himself. when he puts a gloved hand low on your tummy and presses, you see it--fuck, it's good.

he's hitting that spot again and again now. the groans that slip out, the ones he can't control, have you squeezing his cock every time he meets your hips, and he has to grab onto your thighs to keep you from shaking yourself too hard. his balls are heavy, fat, smacking against your ass with a wet sound that's making it hard to focus. you go in and out, and every time that skull mask comes into your vision again, you feel a new wave of shudders make it's way down your spine, curling your toes.

"tha's it, love--" ghost praises. "ughh, knew ya'd be so good f'me. knew ya'd take it like this. open up--yeah, yeah--fuck--" he spits into his glove, nasty, and when he thumbs at your clit, you mewl. your back nearly lifts off the couch and the pillows you rest on, but ghost just cackles, pressing you back down, his palm a nice weight on your tummy as he pushes down again just right and-- "oh--fuck--there it is..."

your orgasm is unlike any other you've ever had. for a split second, the world is nothing but stars. your vision hazes, white spots dancing, and when you blink back to consciousness, ghost has slowed his hips, his hands gripping your hips as he watches the mess between your legs quickly wet his cargos. he hums low, eyes wild, and he keeps fucking up into you suddenly, a bit quicker, renewed vigor.

"want anotha one," ghost hisses, and you babble as you try and tell him i-i can't, never been able to--but he's still going, still running his big thumb in nice circles, and when he draws your legs up and over his shoulders and leans his weight on you, you cry with relief when something softer but just as lovely hits you head-on. ghost gets down onto his elbows, faltering, and when you feel his cum spurt, you shake at how good it feels to be surrounded by your husband, inside and out, the start of him and end of you blurred between tangled limbs and shared breaths and the wedding band you can feel him wearing underneath his gloved hand as he intertwines your fingers and squeezes.

your body is liquid. it seeps back into the couch, melding to the cushions underneath you, and you smile up at your husband as he smooths his hands over your face and chuckles low and breathless.

"y'r so beautiful," he murmurs, and you tell him the same, because it's true. you touch your nose to his, breathing him in, and when you laugh, he asks you what it is.

"i just..." you laugh again. "hmm...why did we wait so long?"

you laugh together, soft and quiet, and when you kiss him, he's gentle. he sits up enough to throw his gear off, the tact vest falling to the floor, and you toss his mask behind you so you can scratch at his short hair and kiss his cheeks.

"so..." you bite your lip, and he gives you all his attention.

"wot is it, baby?"

"you...wanna go again?"

[nereidprinc3ss]

belladonna

in which you have to get your tetanus shot, and spencer is there to hold your hand. and… tease you. just a little bit. (bandages universe)

fluff warnings/tags: needles/r has needle phobia, flirty!reader, idiots in love, teasing, not established relationship yet, anxiety, Spencer makes a joke abt his addiction, did I mention IDIOTS IN LOVE a/n: works as a standalone, as do all the bandages fics I believe. anyway hope u like! <3

“Spencer, I don’t think I can do this.”

He sets down his shoddy hospital coffee and grabs your knee to stop your leg from its rapid bouncing, exerting a gentle pressure when you don’t immediately comply.

“Yes, you can. Just breathe, okay? Try to relax. It’s much harder for your brain to remain in fight-or-flight if your body is relaxed.”

“No, it’s—I feel like I can’t breathe right now,” you say, chest constricted in a vice of panic. “I think my heart is beating too fast, I—”

Footsteps approach from the hallway and your head snaps up, cold dread filling every vein in your body—but they continue past your door.

“Oh my god, I’m losing it. I’m going to die here,” you rave, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. The gauze wrapped around your hand presses against your brow and beneath it a cut throbs dully—a cruel reminder of what it is that you’re doing here in the first place.

Spencer gives up on trying to make you stop bouncing your leg, and instead the hand travels to your jaw to find your pulse. His fingers feel cool against your warmed skin, accentuating the constant thrum of your heart. You watch his face anxiously as fifteen seconds go by. 

“Your pulse is pretty high,” he admits gravely, returning his hands to his pockets. Your brow knits at his sudden solemnity as you look up at him. “I’m not a medical doctor, but… we might have to take you to the hospital.”

Any trace of worry withers from your face. “Truly hilarious.”

The corner of his mouth turns up a little.

“See? You’re calm enough to make a sarcastic joke at my expense. If you were actually going to die I doubt you would be able to do that.”

“Wanna make a bet?” you snap.

“Definitely not,” he smiles, warm eyes alight and not at all fazed by your attitude. “You’re the last person I’d bet against.”

“Ha,” you say bitterly, eyes darting to the door again. “In that case I might just take my chances with tetanus.”

“I just watched you slice your hand open on a rusty fence, take down a man twice your size, and get ten stitches without flinching. Needles should be afraid of you.”

At least now your face is warming from the compliment and not the anxiety. 

“It’s... different. Like, stitches and shots. Shots really fucking freak me out. I don’t know if you could tell. I’m sure I seem really chill about it.”

He nods sagely. “Trypanophobia. It’s among the most common phobias in the world, next to Arachniphobia, Ophidiophobia, Acrophobia, Aerophobia. You have Astraphobia, too, don’t you? Fear of storms?”

“Spencer.”

“I also used to struggle with needles, actually.”

You look back at him, suddenly curious.

“Used to?”

“Yeah, but I pretty much got over it when I got all the vaccines for my clearance at the Academy. Becoming addicted to intravenous drugs helped, too, but I wouldn’t recommend it,” he muses, examining the art on the wall behind you and taking a sip of his coffee.

At that exact moment, the door opens and a very professional, very exhausted-looking nurse hurries in. You hardly even register her because you’re staring at Spencer, trying to figure out if you just heard him right. He’s looking right back at you over the rim of his cup, eyes dancing with what looks like suppressed mirth.

The nurse says something, and you bless her with an ‘uh-huh’, unable to take your eyes off of Spencer.

“I must be hallucinating,” you say.

“What? You’re the only one allowed to make off-color jokes at inappropriate times?”

“I didn’t even know you could make a regular joke, honestly.”

“You ready, dear?” says the nurse, swabbing your upper arm with an alcohol wipe.

“Ah! Spencer!” You yelp, thrusting out your hand for him to take. He quickly sets the cup  back down on the window sill and takes your outstretched hand, stepping closer.

“Relax,” he laughs upon seeing how your shoulders have risen to meet your ears. “Don’t look over there. Look at me.” Gently he brushes a loose strand of your hair behind your shoulder, redirecting your focus toward him. At this point you’ve gone catatonic anyway, so you don’t resist, although it doesn’t seem to matter much because you’re basically blacking out. “Literally relax your arm. I'm serious. It will hurt less.”

“Small pinch, darlin’,” the nurse says, and you clench your jaw so hard you’re afraid you might break a tooth, and maybe some tetanus-induced lockjaw wouldn’t actually be so bad, and she’s touching your arm now, and who made that extremely undignified squeaking noise, and— “And you’re done.”

You frown.

“I’m done?”

“You’re done,” the nurse repeats. Logically she has no reason to lie to you about this, but you look over to check anyway because there’s simply no way you’re done just like that. Sure enough, she’s smoothing a band-aid over your shoulder and pulling your sleeve back into place.

You look back at Spencer as if searching for a second opinion, utterly baffled. He carefully frees his poor hand of your bone crushing grip and grabs your discarded FBI jacket from the chair, handing it to you.

“That’s it?” you say, taking the jacket and absent-mindedly folding it on your lap.

“That’s it. You did it.”

“Really? That’s all? I feel like it can’t be that easy. I don’t even think I felt anything,” you ramble, rolling your shoulder around, and finding just a bit of soreness.

“You were so brave,” he nods, stepping closer to wipe something warm and wet away from under your eyes. “Americans can rest easy knowing they’ve got someone like you in the FBI.”

“Shut up. Am I crying?”

He laughs, and the twinkly sound fills you with even more joy than normal. Everything seems a little brighter, a little warmer—probably another adrenaline rush or a result of your brain releasing a trace amount of opioids in response to the pain.

“Just a little bit.”

“You two are FBI?” The nurse says, like she can’t quite believe it.

Before you can tell her that you don’t very much like her tone, Spencer nods.

“Behavioral analysis unit.”

“Oh! You guys catch all those serial killers?”

He nods politely, giving her a flat smile. “That’s the goal, yes.”

“Wow. There’s a meet-cute to tell your children.”

You snort and immediately clap your good hand to your mouth, looking up at Spencer to see how he’ll react. Of course he’s already red and stammering.

“Oh, no—I—maybe I misled you, we’re not, uh… we’re not together. Not like that. We are partners in the, in the sense of our job, not—we’re not romantically involved. Just—co-workers. Friends. We’re, I’d say we’re good friends. I mean, she’s great. She’s very nice, and, well—maybe nice isn’t exactly the right word, but she’s, you know—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt.

“You ready to go?” he says immediately, looking very grateful that someone finally cut him off. Works like a charm, every time. 

You stand, and to your surprise, wobble a bit on your feet. Spencer steadies you with a hand to your waist. “Woah,” you mutter, trying not to look too disoriented.

“You need to eat,” he says. “With how anxious you’ve been you probably completely burned through whatever calories were in your system. It’s a parasympathetic nervous system response to adrenaline.”

“I know what it is.” You grab his hand and turn to the nurse, who is looking at the two of you with a bemused, slightly clinical interest. “Um... thanks? Right?”

“Okay,” Spencer says. “We’re leaving now. Come on. Go.”

As he’s herding you out the door, you keep trying to look at him over your shoulder. “Is it weird that I kind of liked it? Does that, like… point to something?”

“Never repeat that,” Spencer says, shaking his head, but you can hear the strain of a hidden smile in his voice. 

You smile up at him as the two of you walk down the empty hallway, swinging his hand in yours.

“She thought we were together,” you say, and it’s almost a gloat, though Spencer can’t quite wrap his mind around what that might mean. Instead, he relishes the weight of your hand in his. He doesn’t exactly remember when that became commonplace, but he never takes it for granted. He can’t help the smirk across his face which always lets you know he’s going to say something snarky. 

“She just doesn’t understand that you need constant attention or you’ll die.”

Luckily, you’re used to each other. Quips are just one prevalent dialect in your vast love language. 

“Yup. I’m a delicate, rare flower.”

Spencer scoffs lightly.

“Yeah. Like deadly nightshade. Or water hemlock.”

“Those ones are pretty, right?”

He squeezes your hand. Imagines telling you that he’s in love with you and has been for a very long time. 

Instead, he thinks about dinner. 

“Gorgeous. Where do you want to eat, Belladonna?”

for more of these two, check out the bandages universe masterlist!

[ddejavvu]

Helloo!! Sooo I have a picture of mgg as my lock screen but his face isn’t in the picture and I was wonderinggg if you could write about the girls at the bau seeing your background of your phone and it’s some guy but they don’t know it’s spencer and they ask all these questions about this mysterious secret boyfriend you have and asking to meet him and r is just like maybeeee idk knowing that they have in fact met him and maybe spencer is near by and hearing all this and is just all shy and flustered. If you do write this THANK YOUUU you’re writing it phenomenal, one of a kind, it’s so good!!! <333

"Woah, hubba hubba," JJ's eyes bug out at your phone screen, and Emily, forever on JJ's wavelength, snatches it out of your hands before you can properly dim the screen.

"Who is that?" Emily asks everyone's burning question, and one of Penelope's hands squeezes yours, with nails, to emphasize her urgency.

Your lock screen is a picture of Spencer's bare chest clad only in a blazer, the front open in a lewd V that showcases the dark pink kiss marks you'd spread across the smattering of wiry curls he's grown. It's not something you'd meant to flash your coworkers with, and Spencer chokes on his water while Derek hoots and hollers at it.

"There are some things that should be kept private," Rossi drawls, eyes wide and haunted as he stands, "I'm going to get Aaron and myself another refill, just in case any worse pictures get shown around the table."

Hotch laughs at the older man, amusement lining his features handsomely as the group continues to tease you.

"So, when are you bringing this guy around? Not that we'd recognize him anyways, unless he showed up shirtless with lipstick all over him."

"Derek, you-" You barely stop yourself from saying, 'you have met him', instead swerving into an easy insult, "You're the last person I want to introduce him to. You'll never let us live this down."

"None of us will." Prentiss promises, her grin wolfish, "You'll be lucky if Garcia doesn't manage to track him down using nipple-recognition software."

Your technical analyst cackles into her drink, and Spencer makes a hasty getaway.

"I need the bathroom," He paws with burning cheeks at Derek's leg, ushering the man out of his way so that he can speed-walk to the bathroom. You watch him go, hearing Hotch let out a rare laugh at his urgency.

"Poor Spence," JJ croons, "Did you see how red his face was?"

"That kid's almost thirty and I bet he can't even say the word 'sex' without blushing." Derek scoffs.

"He can't. I've seen it." Garcia confirms, "It's pathetic."

"Pathetic," You snort, but what your team hears as agreement, you mean as contradiction. Spencer was nothing close to pathetic that night- sweet and tender, yes, but pathetic, no. He'd cupped your face while you'd spread a smattering of sticky kisses across his chest, and he'd stared into your eyes when you'd taken the picture, a smile on his face even though he'd known his grin wouldn't be in frame.

"Well get all of it out now," Hotch advises, a teasing tone in his voice, "Spencer won't come back if we're still talking about it."

"I'm happy for you." Dave states, setting his and Aaron's drinks down, "But so help me, Y/N, if I ever see your boyfriend's naked torso again, I'll kill myself."

You refrain from telling Rossi he had just seen your boyfriend's bare torso, last week when Spencer had needed to be stripped of his cold, wet clothes, and thrust into a heated blanket for warmth. No one had batted an eye at his brief nudity, and neither had you, because you'd memorized every inch of his skin. You didn't need to ogle him; you could recall his body from memory.

"I'll keep that in mind." You nod at Rossi sagely, "Just don't go through the rest of my camera roll." You see Spencer exit the bathroom, peering cautiously at your table to see if he can predict the conversation before returning, "Or you'll find a lot worse than his chest."

[boneblushed]

And, boy, you got her

synopsis Rafe’s in charge of the pledges during Rush Week. Hazing isn’t a thing. Making you feel so high school is.

wc 3.6K

a/n omgggg Euro Trip Rafe <3333 I was living on pledgetok last week and just couldn’t not write something about it

“Holy shit,” Noah mutters, surveying the crowd over his red cup, “I swear they get scrawnier every single year.”

Rafe nods gravely, taking a pull of his beer. “It’s fucking grim.”

“Like — fuck, look at those two.” Noah gestures toward the shaded veranda, a fresh coat of gloss making its balustrades shine. Huddled in one corner, attempting to take up as little space as possible, two boys donning UNC merch survey the crowd in tandem. “We weren’t that fucking scraggy as freshman, were we?”

“You two weren’t,” Kelce snorts, coming up behind them. Topper brings up his rear, mid-bite of his loaded hotdog. “Thornton definitely was though.”

“Oi!” Topper protests, his words garbled by half chewed sausage. “S’wasn’t that bad. C’mon.” He turns to Rafe then, swallowing his mouthful. “But seriously, you locked in any potentials?”

Rafe furrows his brow thoughtfully, looking back over Delta Chi’s yard. Unsurprisingly, it’s far too early to say. Though the barbecue that they’re hosting is a good way for pledges to mingle, it isn’t exactly hazing material; they’re going to have to get creative.

“Maybe,” he replies finally, shrugging. “We’ll just have to see I guess.”

He tips back his red cup again, swallowing the last dregs of beer before acquiescing. As he’s about to announce his need for a refill, a few pledges sidle up to their group, looking hopeful.

Not overtly, of course. Painstakingly hiding their eagerness behind an armour of insouciance.

“Rafe,” the tallest of the three greets, handing him another red cup. The golden liquid inside it brims to the surface, its white foam dissolving in mocking. “Hey, bro. You need another?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, hiding a grin. “Shit. Table service already?”

The boy grins in tandem, looking a little sheepish. “Big fan, man. I’m Dylan.” He motions at the two guys on either side of him, wearing matching squints and backwards caps. “This is Rahul and Xav, we’re all here from Trinity.”

“Durham and Chapel Hill?” Noah enquires, whistling approvingly when they nod. “Fuck, we used to love having away games there. Those Trin cheerleaders…”

“Haha, shit, what was that chic’s name again?” Rafe asks then, a pull of mirth as he turns to Noah. “The one you messed around with in junior year?”

“Blake,” Noah answers, groaning in a mock-wistful sort of way. “They didn’t make ‘em like her at the Academy.”

Rafe snorts, sending the pledges a sage glance. “Nah. They made ‘em better.”

Noah raises his eyebrows, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, so we are allowed to objectify your girl then, Cameron?”

“Damn, so you’re tied down?” Xavier pipes up, his voice gravelly and low on purpose. Overtly masculine, like he’s trying hard to be red-blooded. “Your girl doesn’t mind you partying?”

Rafe frowns. “Why would she mind?”

“Uh,” Xavier balks, pulling at the bill of his backwards cap, “shit. I don’t know… like, doesn’t she get pissed that you’re constantly around sorority girls?”

“HA —” Topper laughs, and then he falters, thwarted by Rafe’s warning glower. “Uh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Let’s just say Cameron doesn’t give her any reasons to be suspicious.”

“Because he’s obsessed with her,” Noah adds, unperturbed by Rafe’s expression. He pauses then, an amusing idea popping into his head. “Which means…” he continues, returning Rafe’s glare with a trust me one of his own, “you guys should be too.”

Rafe doesn’t trust him. Like, at all. He sends him a bewildered look, unsure where he’s going with this. “White — what?”

Noah ignores him. He downs his beer and crushes the red cup in his hand, deftly aiming it at the nearest bag of trash. “So,” he says, eyeing the three pledges with interest. “How serious are you guys about rushing Delt?”

“Pretty serious, bro,” Rahul answers, looking to his friends for support. “Think we got a shot?”

Noah throws his arm around Rafe’s neck, his strong bicep taut as he shoots them a grin. “Depends, man, I might know how we could figure that out though.” He begins to steer Rafe away from them, sending one last, faux-somber look over his shoulder. “Be right back, yeah?”

Rafe, whose bewilderment is quickly giving way curiosity, allows himself to be marshalled out of earshot without complaints.

He shrugs Noah off of him once they’re on the verandah, his features ever-bemused as he turns toward him. “The fuck was that about?”

“Bro, I know exactly how we’re going to haze these motherfuckers,” Noah replies, his voice lilted with mirth. “You know… without breaking any rules.”

The bewildered expression on Rafe’s face doesn’t acquiesce. “Okay… how?”

“Instead of getting them to be our bitches,” he answers, a mischievous grin making home on his features. “We’re going to get them to be our girlfriends’ bitches.”

Rafe frowns. “Bro. What?”

“Cameron, it’s perfect.” He swipes Rafe’s beer from his hand and takes a generous pull. “What do frat guys hate more than being called scrawny as fuck?”

“Uh. Doing assignments?” Rafe answers blankly, still frowning. He doesn’t have it in him to think too hard about Noah’s profferance. He’s on hour two of manning this boring event, hour four since he bid you farewell, and all Rafe can bear to think about right now is the imminent taste of your peach-scented lips.

Noah shakes his head. “No, dumbass. Being called a simp.”

“Wrong,” Rafe answers, “I don’t mind that shit at all.”

“You’re the exception,” Noah replies matter-of-factly. “You and Y/N have always been the exception. C’mon, I’m talking about us,” he places his palm over his breastbone solemnly, “mere mortals.”

Rafe narrows his eyes. “Fuck off. How would that even work?”

“We…” Noah pauses to think, a slightly furrow to his brow, “alright, I got it. We assign the pledges to our girlfriends, one by one. Give them a week to make a good impression — you know, carry their bags, buy them flowers, all that sentimental crap you love.”

“You really think the guys’ll agree to this?” Rafe asks, sounding reluctant. “I mean… I don’t know if I’m alright with a bunch of idiots holding doors for my girl.”

“But you’re an idiot that holds a door for your girl,” Noah answers, not missing a beat.

“Fuck off, White.”

“I’m serious. It’ll be funny. And look… if you’re worried about Y/N, I know she’ll find it adorable as fuck.”

Rafe shakes his head. “No way. She didn’t find high-school me adorable.”

Noah raises his eyebrows skeptically. “You’d be surprised, man. Besides, these guys aren’t going to be like high-school you. High-school you was a douchebag.”

“A douchebag who got the girl.”

“A douchebag who got the girl after he stopped acting like a douchebag.” Noah smirks then. “A douchebag who’d give all these fuckers a run for their money if he was pledging Delt this year.”

Rafe grins in tandem, stealing his beer back to take a big swig. “Alright, shit, alright. Harmless shit though, right? Chivalry and all that?”

“Harmless as hell,” Noah agrees. “C’mon. You really think any of these guys has the balls to make a pass at one of our girls?”

“Easy for you to say, White. You don’t fucking have a girl.”

Noah frowns. “What d’you mean? Aren’t we going halves on Y/N?”

“Holy fuck, Noah,” Rafe groans, almost spitting out his mouthful of beer. “If Y/N heard the shit you said when she wasn’t around, she’d probably kill you.”

“Nah,” Noah replies, seemingly unperturbed. “She loves me.”

“Well,” Rafe says grimly, crushing his own empty cup in his head. “She might do now, but she sure as hell won’t by the end of this week.”

—

The first time it happens, you’re understandably perplexed.

You’re en-route to your 9AM, bag strap denting your left shoulder, when a stranger falls into your step and swipes it from your figure. It’s a motion so quick and deft you initially think you’re getting mugged.

As you double back in bewilderment, he proffers, “you alright with this?”

“Uh.” You balk. “What?”

“Your bag,” he answers, readjusting it on his own shoulder. He seems earnest. Nervous, even. “It looked heavy. I can carry it to class for you, if you want?”

You allow a pause to take him in.

“No, I’m…” another pause, more of his demeanour on display. Backwards cap, crisp white polo shirt, smile lines exposing the ghost of a grin on his face. A familiar grin, the kind that pulls a soft, maudlin feeling from your ribcage. “Look, if you’re trying to hit on me —”

“No, no,” he interrupts quickly, his eyes widening in a panic. “Shit — no, don’t tell Cameron I’m hitting on you. I’m just…”

“Wait a minute,” your eyes narrow accusatorially, because of course he’s behind this chivalrous display, “you know my boyfriend?”

The stranger grimaces sheepishly. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Explain.”

“It’s… uh… well — basically, I’m pledging Delt,” he answers haltingly, self effacement juxtaposing his frat boy exterior. “Rafe’s asked us to be all gentlemanly and shit for pledge week, I don’t know. To you guys, I mean. Like… the current frat member’s girls?”

“Oh my god,” you groan. “No he hasn’t.”

“Shit.” He looks far more nervous now that he did five minutes ago. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you grumble, pulling your phone out of your pocket. “No he did not.”

Rafe’s on speed dial. He picks up on the first ring, the way he always does for you.

“Hey baby,” his gravelly timbre crackles through the phone, the low hum of frat house chatter audible in the background. “What’s up?”

“Don’t even. You know what’s up Rafael.”

A pause. When Rafe speaks again, his voice is quick and placating. “It was Noah’s idea.”

“Of course it was.”

“Dylan’s not playing up, is he?”

You raise your eyebrows at the stranger then, assessing him faux-suspiciously. “No way. He’s doing a better job than you ever did in high school.”

“Woah woah woah,” Rafe replies, a playful lilt to his tone. “That fucker’s not calling you dream girl or something, is he?”

“Worse. He’s being respectful of my boundaries.”

“Oh shit. I fucking knew this was a bad idea.”

You shake your head in exasperation, trying not to laugh. The poor stranger’s still standing there at attention, your leather bag looking ridiculous on his arm. “Rafe. Tell me he’s the only one.”

“He’s one…” Rafe starts slowly, sounding sheepish, “of three. Four, counting me.” In the background, you hear Noah pipe up and add, “five, Cameron. How could you forget me?”

“You’re un-fucking-believable, Noah White,” you shout through the phone.

“I love you too, Y/N,” Noah sings, and then he groans, no doubt shoved to the side by his indignant best friend. It’s Rafe on the phone again, voice sweet and thick as molasses as he says, “they’ll behave, baby, and make your life easier in the process. I promise.”

“What?” You accuse, fighting back a smile. “Like you did in high school?”

“Fuck no,” he replies, the grin on his face audible. “They’ll be nothing like I was, sweetheart.”

“What?” You tease. “Absolutely insufferable?”

“And absolutely in love with you.”

You raise your eyebrows. “How can you be so sure?”

“They’re under strict instruction. Have a shiner waiting for them if they pull something funny.”

Another exasperated laugh bubbles out of you, and you begin walking forward again, motioning at the boy named Dylan to follow in your step. “Right. So the boundaries are on purpose, are they?”

“The respect, too. No being inappropriate and charming at the same time.”

“And why not?” You ask faux-indignantly. “What if I like being objectified?”

“Can’t have you falling in love with them, can I?”

“Hey,” you argue, frowning stubbornly. “That is not what made me fall in love with you.”

“It isn’t?”

“Well,” you balk, “not solely that.”

“You’re fucking sexy,” he recites devotedly, almost yells, and you can hear the collective groan of his frat brothers in the background. “Are you wearing those Lululemon pants right now? Point is, I’m thinking about your ass in those Lululemon pants right now.”

“Rafe, I was fucking kidding. Stop.”

“No you weren’t.” You know he’s right; you can picture that stupid smirk on his face. It makes your cheeks warm. Asshole. “You’re blushing now, aren’t you?”

“Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Rafe agrees. “No funny business, alright? Just lots of good deeds.”

Good deeds. You suppose you could get used to good deeds, the embarrassment of attention notwithstanding.

You let out a defeated sigh, halting in front of your 9AM class. “You so, so owe me.”

“I so, so love you,” Rafe replies, and it makes your pulse leap; you’ll never get used to this feeling. “See you later, yeah?”

“Uh huh. Love you.”

Dylan waits until you’ve ended the call before saying farewell, dutifully handing your leather bag back to you and giving you a mock salute. The way he does it, all sheepish and genuine with a charming smile on his face, makes your heart twinge in a junior year of high-school sort of way. You’re feeling sentimental. It’s sweet.

You’re reminded of Rafe before he was yours, stumbling over himself to win your favour. Confusing chivalry with courting, objectifying you in the name of flirting.

Insufferable, but sweet nonetheless. You digress.

—

The next time it happens, you’re ambushed at your favourite cafe.

A dutiful Delta Phi pledge has already queued up and purchased you coffee, handing it over to you with a blushing bouquet of tulips.

You raise your eyebrows at him questioningly. “Is that…?”

“Uh, an oat iced coffee with vanilla?” He asks, sounding nervous. “I asked Cameron for your order.”

“Didn’t ask me about pastries, though,” a voice behind you adds, rough and familiar with a sweetness around the edges. Rafe circles your waist with ease and pulls you into his chest, sponging a soft kiss to your temple before handing you a brown bag.

A glossy, Daily Bread sticker shines on its exterior proudly.

Your eyes widen in surprise, and you look up at him expectantly. “Tell me you didn’t drive back home for a single croissant.”

“I didn’t drive back home for a single croissant,” Rafe replies. He grins then, looking that same, sheepish genuine that pulls a maudlin feeling. “I drove back home for twenty.”

“Rafe. Why?”

“Because you like Daily Bread,” he replies matter-of-factly, like it’s obvious.

You shake your head in exasperation, tip-toeing up to press a quick kiss to his lips. It becomes less quick against better judgement. He tastes like spearmint gum and cold brew, the hand he has held to your waist tightening ever so slightly. Slipping under your shirt, massaging the soft skin he finds there expertly, discreetly. Too much for 8am on a Wednesday morning, sans coffee. Your face feels on fire. You pull away in a hurry.

Meanwhile, the freshman pledge balks at the exchange, looking out of place.

Rafe frowns bemusedly at your diffidence, only clocking the reason when you nod over at him.

“I’ll walk her over Ben,” he says, dismissing him. “You’re off the hook, bro.”

“Shit.” The boy named Ben grimaces; he needs to get his hours in, and doesn’t deem this a fair ambush. He scrambles for an excuse. “Right. Can I still give her the flowers?”

“Of course you can,” you beam, accepting them gratefully. You look up at Rafe then, asking, “And if I want to walk with Benjamin?”

Rafe grins down at you, disbelieving. “Do you, baby?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” you say, wriggling out of his grasp. “He got me flowers.”

Rafe falters, his eyes widening in surprise. “Sweetheart, I got you a croissant.”

“Ben got me a coffee,” you hedge. “And flowers.”

“Y/N,” he placates.

“Rafael,” you echo, unperturbed by his exasperation. You take a sip your coffee. “I’ll see you later, okay? Ben’s ticking off a good deed this morning.”

Poor Ben looks helpless, taking the brunt of Rafe’s glare as you motion for him to hold the door for you.

“C’mon Ben, we’re going to be late.”

“But…” Ben pauses, his eyes flitting to Rafe nervously. “This is fine, right?”

Rafe sighs, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth in defeat. “Yeah, bro. You’re good.” He looks to you, then. “You’re unbelievable.”

You smile sweetly. “I’m wearing the Lulu leggings.”

“Oh I noticed,” Rafe replies, his blue eyes falling down your figure in slow, reverent paces. “It’s why I want to be the one holding the door for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Men only want one thing.”

Rafe grins. “Yeah. You.”

—

By the end of the week, you’re more used to the chivalry than you’re willing to admit.

You’ve enjoyed free iced lattes and filled your dorm with gorgeous bouquets, no door left unopened and no walk to class left unescorted. And really, every pledge you’ve come across has been pleasant and unassuming, albeit absolutely terrified of Rafe and therefore extra obliging on instinct.

They’ve even offered to do favours for you, got you into sought after Pilates classes and done last minute grocery runs on your behalf. It’s put you in this constant state of mild exasperation, like you can’t believe you’re worthy of this much love and chivalry.

It’s exactly the way you felt back in high-school with Rafe, and this revelation pulls lots of funny feelings from your stomach, from your chest. Feelings you’ve forgotten that are all yours and all his. Because it’s strange, having someone other than Rafe taking care of you. (Or Noah.) It’s strange because it makes you realise just how much he adored you back in the day.

These emotions come to a head at the pledge week closing bash, Delta Phi lit up with fluorescent lights in technicolour. Inebriation ensues, beer pong follows, and an impromptu DJ deck plays endless songs with heavy bass.

Rafe Cameron has you pulled close, as always, the taut muscle of his forearm pressing heat to your exposed waist. You’re a few drinks down and hyperaware of his proximity, ankles touching, thighs too, torsos close with your head resting on his shoulder.

“I think I like Dylan the best,” you announce suddenly.

“Yeah?” Rafe asks, kneading your skin absentmindedly.

You nod. “He’s sweet. Told me all about his girl back home.”

Rafe grins then, shaking his head bemusedly. “You’re such a sucker for love, sweetheart.”

“Hey!” You glare up at him faux-incensed, looking accusatory. “So are you!”

“Shhhh,” Rafe murmurs playfully. “Not so loud, you’ll fuck up my street cred.”

You scoff. “Since when do you care about street cred?”

“Shit, you’re right,” Rafe agrees easily, leaning down to draw your lips in for a kiss. He’s all patchouli and musk, beer on his tongue and unchaste intentions in his touch. When he pulls away, his lips are still an inch from yours, his voice rougher than it was a second ago, “I don’t care. Like, at fucking all.”

“Good,” Noah snorts from behind him. “‘Cause you never had any to begin with, bro.”

“There you are,” you say then, eyeing Noah over Rafe’s shoulder. There’s a mock accusatory expression on your face, softened by mirth and the alcohol on your lips. “Have you been hiding from me, White?”

Noah grins sheepishly, taking a pull of his beer. “Maybe.”

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me. When did you become worse than Rafael?”

“I didn’t become worse!” Noah insists. “He just became better. You know, after he got the girl.”

You make a face. “Smooth.”

“Hey,” Noah raises his arms in surrender, looking faux-somber, “someone’s gotta teach the next generation, don’t they? I’m committed to their education.” He raises his eyebrows then, a mischievous glint in his eye. “C’mon, don’t act like you didn’t love it.”

Rafe grins. “She totally fucking loved it.”

You aim a glare at the pair of them, failing miserably at hiding your amusement. “So maybe I didn’t mind it. Sue me.”

“Of course you loved it,” Noah says, throwing his arm around you and pulling you into his side. “You love Cameron, don’t you?”

You narrow your eyes. “Opinions vary.”

“You love me?” Noah tries.

“You fucking wish.”

“Everyone fucking wishes,” Rafe says then, throwing his arm around you too, your figure wedged between the pair of them. Frat boy sandwich, you think tiredly. If high-school you could see you now, you’re pretty sure she’d have an aneurysm. “Especially when you’re in Lululemon.”

“Rafe.”

“I’m kidding. Not really. They all love you, you know that, yeah?”

You look up at him questioningly. “The pledges?”

“Uh huh,” Rafe replies, raising his eyebrows at you. “This is what I was afraid of, you know.”

“What?” You ask, lifting yours in tandem.

“Everyone falling in love with you, like I did in high school.”

You scrunch up your nose at him, your cheeks warming in diffidence. “No one’s fallen in love with me, don’t be silly.”

“I have,” Noah pipes up unhelpfully.

“Shut up, Noah. I saw you talking to Georgia just before.”

Noah grins, pulling away and offering you a mock salute. ��Guilty as charged.” He turns to survey the crowd, spotting her figure on the fairy-light lit porch. “Speaking of…”

And he’s gone before you’re able to tease him any further, leaving Rafe to guide you out of his side and into his chest. You wrap your arms around his neck, his hands exerting a warm, steady pressure into the curve of your waist.

“As I was saying,” you continue, frowning up at him playfully. “No one’s fallen in love with me.”

Rafe’s unconvinced. His gaze skates down your figure again, a tortured groan falling from his throat. “Have you seen you, sweetheart?”

You roll your eyes, face hot and self conscious. “And even if they have,” you add, “it doesn’t matter.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “It doesn’t?”

“No way. Because I’m in love with you, not any of them.”

Rafe grins then, a devastatingly handsome look on his face. “I’ll never get used to hearing that.”

“I’ll never get used to saying it.”

[pucksandpower]

Paddock Princess

Formula 1 (literally half the grid) x Vettel!Reader

Summary: when the drivers find out that you’re planning to have a baby all by yourself, they offer to help out by playing sperm roulette … the results are surprisingly wholesome

The buzz of excitement fills the air as the paddock comes to life on a sunny morning. Drivers, team personnel, and media representatives mill about, but there’s a palpable sense of anticipation among a particular group of racers gathered near the Ferrari motorhome.

Max leans against the sleek red structure, his eyes darting around nervously. “Has anyone seen her yet?” He asks, his voice tinged with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Charles shakes his head, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Not yet. But she should be here soon, right?”

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Lando chimes in, bouncing on his toes. “It’s like something out of a movie.”

Carlos nods in agreement, a grin spreading across his face. “A very strange movie, but I’m here for it.”

George glances at his watch, his brow furrowed. “She’s usually here by now. You don’t think she’s having second thoughts, do you?”

“No way,” Oscar says confidently. “You know her. Once she sets her mind to something, that’s it.”

Lewis, standing slightly apart from the younger drivers, offers a reassuring smile. “Oscar’s right. She’s one of the most determined people I know. If this is what she wants, she’ll see it through.”

Logan, the newest addition to the group, shifts nervously. “I still can’t believe you guys talked me into this. My mom would freak if she knew.”

Alex pats him on the shoulder. “Relax, mate. It’s all anonymous, remember? Besides, think of how happy she’ll be.”

Fernando, leaning against a nearby barrier, nods sagely. “Exactly. We’re doing this for her, because she deserves it.”

Lance, who’s been quiet until now, suddenly straightens up. “Heads up, guys. I think I see her coming.”

The group falls silent as you approach, your press pass swinging from your neck and a warm smile on your face. “Morning, boys,” you greet them cheerfully. “Why do you all look like you’re up to something?”

Max clears his throat, trying to sound casual. “Us? Never. Just, uh, enjoying the nice weather.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. And I suppose you’re all gathered here by pure coincidence?”

Charles steps forward, his charm on full display. “Can’t we just be happy to see our favorite reporter?”

You laugh, the sound lightening the mood. “Alright, alright. I’ll play along. But seriously, what’s going on? You’re all acting weird.”

The drivers exchange glances, silently debating who should speak first. Finally, Lewis takes the lead.

“We heard about your decision,” he says gently. “About wanting to have a baby.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Oh. I didn’t realize ... I mean, I only told a couple of people.”

Lando grins sheepishly. “Word travels fast in the paddock. Especially when it’s about you.”

You look around at the group, a mix of emotions playing across your face. “Okay, so you know. But that doesn’t explain why you’re all acting like you’re planning a heist.”

Carlos steps forward, his expression earnest. “We want to help.”

You blink, confusion evident in your eyes. “Help? How?”

George takes a deep breath before plunging in. “We’ve all agreed to donate sperm. To give you options, you know?”

Your jaw drops, and for a moment, you’re speechless. “You ... what?”

Oscar jumps in, his words tumbling out in a rush. “We know you said you were thinking about using a sperm bank, but we thought, well, why not use someone you actually know?”

“And trust,” Alex adds quickly.

You look around at the group, your expression a mix of shock, confusion, and something that might be amusement. “Let me get this straight. All of you,” you gesture at the assembled drivers, “want to donate sperm so I can have a baby?”

They nod in unison, and you can’t help but laugh. “This is ... I don’t even know what to say. It’s incredibly sweet, but also completely insane.”

Fernando steps forward, his expression serious. “We know it’s unconventional. But you’re important to all of us. We want to support you in any way we can.”

You shake your head, still trying to process the situation. “I appreciate that, truly. But guys, this is a huge decision. It’s not just about me having a baby. One of you would be a father.”

Max nods, his face set in determination. “We’ve thought about that. A lot, actually.”

“And we’re okay with it,” Lando adds. “Whatever level of involvement you want, we’ll respect that.”

You look at them, your eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait a minute. How exactly would this work? I can’t exactly pick one of you. That would be ...”

“Awkward,” Lance finishes for you. “We know. That’s why we came up with a plan.”

Logan, who’s been quiet until now, speaks up. “We’d all donate, and then the clinic would mix the samples together.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “So it would be like ... artificial insemination roulette?”

Carlos grins. “Exactly! That way, no one knows who the father is. It could be any of us.”

You shake your head, a disbelieving laugh escaping you. “This is absolutely crazy. You know that, right?”

Lewis steps closer, his expression gentle. “Maybe. But we all care about you. We want you to be happy, and we know how much you want this.”

You look around at the group, taking in their earnest expressions. “I don’t know what to say. This is ... a lot to process.”

George nods understandingly. “Of course it is. We don’t expect you to decide right now. Just ... think about it, okay?”

You nod slowly, still looking a bit dazed. “Okay. I’ll think about it. But guys, this is a huge thing you’re offering. Are you sure you’ve really thought it through?”

Alex speaks up, his voice calm and reassuring. “We have. We’ve talked about it a lot, actually. We know it’s not a decision to make lightly.”

“But we’re all in agreement,” Oscar adds. “If this is what you want, we want to help make it happen.”

You take a deep breath, looking around at the group. “I need some time to think about this. It’s ... a lot to take in.”

Max nods, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder gently. “Take all the time you need. We’re not going anywhere.”

As you turn to walk away, still looking a bit shell-shocked, the drivers watch you go with a mix of hope and anxiety.

“Do you think she’ll go for it?” Lando asks, nervously fidgeting with his sleeve.

Charles shrugs, his eyes still following your retreating figure. “I don’t know. It’s a big decision.”

“We’ve done our part,” Fernando says sagely. “Now it’s up to her.”

The group falls into a contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts about the potential consequences of their offer.

Several days pass, and the paddock is abuzz with speculation. The drivers have managed to keep their offer under wraps, but your contemplative mood hasn’t gone unnoticed.

You find yourself cornered by the group once again, this time in a quiet corner of the paddock after qualifying.

“So,” Max says, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “Have you, uh, given any thought to our offer?”

You look around at the expectant faces surrounding you and take a deep breath. “I have, actually. I’ve thought about little else, to be honest.”

The tension in the air is palpable as they wait for your decision.

“I’m still not sure this is the right thing to do,” you begin, and you can see their faces fall. “But ... I can’t deny that the idea has a certain appeal.”

Hope blossoms in their expressions, and you can’t help but smile at their eagerness.

“Before I say yes,” you continue, holding up a hand to stave off their excitement, “I need to know that you’ve all really thought this through. This isn’t just about me having a baby. One of you will be a father, even if we don’t know which one.”

Lewis nods solemnly. “We understand. We’ve talked about it a lot, believe me.”

“And you’re all okay with the possibility of having a child out there that you might never know is yours?” You press.

They exchange glances before nodding in unison.

“We know it’s not a conventional situation,” Charles says. “But we’re all willing to accept whatever comes of this.”

You look at each of them in turn, searching their faces for any sign of doubt. Finding none, you take a deep breath.

“Okay,” you say finally. “If you’re all sure about this ... then yes. I’d be honored to accept your offer.”

The reaction is immediate and overwhelming. Cheers erupt from the group, and before you know it, you’re engulfed in a group hug.

“This is going to be amazing,” Lando exclaims, his face lit up with excitement.

“You’re going to be an incredible mother,” Alex adds, his smile warm and sincere.

As the excitement dies down, practical considerations start to surface.

“So, how do we do this?” Oscar asks. “Do we all just show up at the clinic or ...”

You can’t help but laugh at the mental image. “I think it might be best if we handle this discreetly. I’ll talk to the clinic and set everything up. They can give you instructions on how to make your ... contributions.”

George nods, looking relieved. “That sounds like a good plan. We don’t want this getting out to the media.”

“Agreed,” you say firmly. “This stays between us. No one else needs to know the details.”

The group nods in agreement, and you feel a wave of affection for these men who are willing to go to such lengths for you.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” you say, shaking your head in wonder.

Fernando smiles, his eyes twinkling. “Believe it. In a few months, you could be on your way to motherhood.”

The reality of the situation starts to sink in, and you feel a mix of excitement and nerves. “This is going to change everything, isn’t it?”

“Change can be good,” Carlos says, giving you a reassuring smile. “And you won’t be alone. We’ll all be here to support you.”

You look around at the group, feeling overwhelmed by their support and affection. “Thank you. All of you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.”

Max grins, lightening the mood. “Well, naming the kid after me would be a good start.”

The group erupts in laughter, and you roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Nice try, Verstappen. But I think we’ll be steering clear of any names that might give away paternity.”

As the laughter dies down, a comfortable silence falls over the group. The magnitude of what you’ve all agreed to hangs in the air, but it’s accompanied by a sense of excitement and possibility.

“So,” Lance says, breaking the silence. “I guess the next step is to set up appointments at the clinic?”

You nod, feeling a flutter of nervous excitement in your stomach. “Yeah, I’ll get that sorted out and let you all know the details.”

“And then ...” Logan trails off, looking a bit overwhelmed.

“And then we wait,” Lewis finishes for him. “And hope for the best.”

You look around at the group of men surrounding you, each one ready to potentially become a father for your sake. It’s an unconventional situation, to say the least, but as you take in their supportive smiles and excited eyes, you can’t help but feel that you’re embarking on something truly special.

“Well, boys,” you say, a smile spreading across your face. “I guess we’re really doing this. Let Operation Make A Baby commence.”

***

The hospital waiting room crackles with nervous energy as eleven Formula 1 drivers pace, fidget, and attempt to distract themselves. The air is thick with anticipation, and every time the door opens, heads snap up in unison, hoping for news.

Max runs a hand through his hair for the hundredth time. “How long has it been now?” He asks, his voice tight with tension.

George checks his watch. “About six hours since we got here. But labor can take a while, especially for first-time mothers.”

“I still can’t believe this is really happening,” Lando says, his leg bouncing incessantly. “One of us is about to become a father.”

Charles nods, his eyes fixed on the door. “It’s surreal. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and find out this was all a dream.”

“Not a dream, mate,” Alex says, patting Charles on the shoulder. “Very much real.”

The door swings open, and a nurse steps out. The drivers collectively hold their breath, but she merely smiles apologetically and heads down the hallway.

Carlos groans. “This waiting is killing me. How are we supposed to just sit here?”

“We could place bets on who the father is,” Logan suggests with a nervous laugh.

Lewis shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We agreed we wouldn’t try to figure it out, remember?”

“Lewis is right,” Fernando says sagely. “What matters is that the baby and the mother are healthy.”

Oscar nods in agreement. “Exactly. We’re all in this together, regardless of biology.”

Lance, who’s been quietly observing until now, speaks up. “Do you think she’s scared? I mean, we’re all nervous wrecks out here, and we’re not the ones giving birth.”

The group falls silent, contemplating Lance’s words. It’s a sobering thought, reminding them of the magnitude of what’s happening just beyond those doors.

“She’s strong,” Max says finally, his voice filled with admiration. “Stronger than all of us put together. She’ll be fine.”

As if on cue, the door swings open again, and this time, a doctor steps out. The drivers scramble to their feet, forming a semicircle around her.

“Gentlemen,” the doctor says, a smile playing at her lips. “I’m happy to inform you that both mother and baby are doing well. It’s a healthy baby girl.”

A collective cheer erupts from the group, followed by a flurry of hugs and backslaps. The tension that’s been building for hours finally breaks, replaced by jubilant relief.

“When can we see them?” Charles asks eagerly.

The doctor holds up a hand. “The mother is resting now, but she’s asked to see you all in about an hour. She wants you to meet the baby together.”

As the doctor leaves, the drivers look at each other, a mix of excitement and nerves on their faces.

“A girl,” Lando says, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “We have a daughter.”

“She has a daughter,” Lewis gently corrects. “We’re ... well, I’m not sure what we are exactly.”

“We’re family,” Fernando says firmly. “All of us and the little one.”

The next hour passes in a blur of excited chatter and speculation. Finally, a nurse appears to escort them to the private room where you and the baby are waiting.

As they file into the room, the sight that greets them renders them momentarily speechless. You’re propped up in the bed, looking tired but radiant, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in a soft pink blanket.

You look up as they enter, a soft smile on your face. “Hey, guys. Come meet your daughter.”

The drivers approach cautiously, as if afraid they might break the spell. You adjust the blanket, revealing a tiny face with rosebud lips and a button nose.

“She’s beautiful,” Max breathes, his eyes wide with wonder.

“She’s perfect,” Charles adds, his voice choked with emotion.

You beam at them, your eyes shining. “Want to hold her?”

After a moment of hesitation, Lewis steps forward. With practiced ease, he gently takes the baby from you, cradling her carefully in his arms.

“Hello, little one,” he coos softly. “Welcome to the world.”

The other drivers crowd around, each wanting a closer look. As Lewis passes the baby to Carlos, the scrutiny intensifies.

“Is it just me, or does she have Max’s nose?” Lando asks, peering closely at the tiny face.

Max leans in, his brow furrowed. “I don’t see it. But those ears ... they look like yours, Lando.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Boys, she’s about one hour old. I think it’s a bit early to be playing guess the father, don’t you?”

The drivers have the grace to look sheepish, but their curiosity is far from satisfied.

As the baby is passed from driver to driver, the observations continue.

“She has a strong grip,” Alex notes as tiny fingers wrap around his thumb. “Definitely going to be a racer.”

“Look at those long eyelashes,” Oscar marvels. “Those have to be from Charles.”

Charles preens a bit at this, while the others roll their eyes good-naturedly.

When it’s Fernando’s turn to hold the baby, he studies her with a thoughtful expression. “You know,” he says slowly, “I think she has your smile.”

You raise an eyebrow. “She hasn’t even smiled yet.”

He shakes his head, a mysterious smile on his face. “Trust me. I can tell.”

As the baby makes her way back to you, the drivers settle into chairs around the room, their eyes never leaving the tiny bundle.

“So,” George says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Have you thought about names?”

You nod, looking down at your daughter. “I have, actually. I was thinking ... Nessa. It means miracle. I thought it was fitting, given how she came into our lives.”

“Nessa,” Logan repeats, testing the name. “I like it. It’s beautiful.”

The others murmur their agreement, and you feel a wave of relief. Naming a baby is hard enough without having to consider the opinions of eleven potential fathers.

“Nessa it is, then,” you say, smiling down at the sleeping infant.

Lance, who’s been quiet until now, speaks up. “Can I ask ... how are you feeling? About all of this, I mean.”

You take a moment to consider the question. “Honestly? I’m overwhelmed. Excited, terrified, grateful ... all at once. But mostly, I’m just in awe. Of her, of this whole situation, of all of you.”

The drivers exchange glances, a mix of emotions playing across their faces.

“We’re the ones who should be in awe of you,” Carlos says softly. “You’ve given us an incredible gift.”

“He’s right,” Max adds. “No matter which one of us is her biological father, we’re all going to love her. And you.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Thank you. All of you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

As if sensing the emotional moment, Nessa chooses that moment to wake up, her tiny face scrunching up as she lets out a wail.

“Oh boy,” Lando says, his eyes wide. “That’s quite a set of lungs she’s got there.”

You laugh, adjusting Nessa in your arms. “Well, she is a paddock baby. Got to make herself heard over those engines somehow.”

As you soothe the baby, the drivers watch in fascination. It’s clear that despite their earlier bravado, the reality of a newborn is a bit daunting.

“So, uh, what happens now?” Oscar asks, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

You look up from Nessa, who’s settled back into sleep. “Well, we’ll be here for a couple more days. After that ... I guess we figure it out as we go along.”

Lewis nods thoughtfully. “We’ll need to work out a schedule. Make sure you have support, especially during race weekends.”

“And we’ll need to baby-proof our garages,” Alex adds. “Can’t have her crawling into a stack of tires.”

The conversation turns to practical matters — childcare arrangements, safety considerations, and how to balance their racing careers with their new roles as ... well, whatever they are to Nessa.

As they talk, you can’t help but marvel at the scene. Eleven of the world’s most elite drivers, discussing diaper brands and the merits of various baby carriers with the same intensity they usually reserve for tire strategies and aerodynamics.

“You know,” you say, interrupting a heated debate about the best brand of baby formula, “I think Nessa might be the luckiest baby in the world.”

The drivers pause, looking at you quizzically.

You smile, looking around at each of them. “She’s got eleven of the most dedicated, passionate, and competitive men in the world looking out for her. Plus, she’s guaranteed to have the coolest bring your parent to school day ever.”

The room erupts in laughter, the tension of the day finally breaking.

“Just wait until she’s old enough to drive,” Max says with a grin. “We’ll have her in a kart before she can walk.”

“Oh no,” you groan, though you’re smiling. “I’ve created a monster, haven’t I?”

“Eleven monsters,” Charles corrects with a wink. “Don’t forget, we’re all in this together.”

As the laughter dies down, a comfortable silence falls over the room. Nessa sleeps peacefully in your arms, blissfully unaware of the extraordinary circumstances of her birth and the unique family she’s been born into.

Fernando breaks the silence. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “in many ways, this little one embodies the spirit of Formula 1.”

The others look at him curiously, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Think about it,” he continues. “She’s the product of competition, of pushing boundaries, of taking risks. But she’s also about teamwork, about coming together for a common goal. Just like us on the track.”

The drivers nod, considering Fernando’s words.

“Plus,” Logan adds with a grin, “she’s already got a better sleep schedule than most of us during a race weekend.”

Another round of laughter fills the room, and you feel a surge of affection for these men who have become so much more than colleagues or even friends.

As visiting hours come to an end and the nurses start to shoo the drivers out, there’s a reluctance to leave. Each of them takes a moment to say goodbye to Nessa, promising to return soon.

Before they go, Lewis gathers everyone into a tight circle around your bed.

“I think we need to make a pact,” he says solemnly. “No matter what happens, no matter how our careers go or how life changes, we stick together for Nessa. She’s part of all of us now.”

The drivers nod in agreement, their faces serious.

“For Nessa,” Max says, placing his hand in the center of the circle.

One by one, the others follow suit, until all eleven hands are stacked together.

“For Nessa,” they chorus, and in that moment, you know that whatever challenges lie ahead, you and your daughter will never face them alone.

As the drivers file out, casting longing glances back at the sleeping baby, you settle back against your pillows, exhausted but content.

Looking down at Nessa’s peaceful face, you whisper, “Welcome to the world, little one. You’ve got quite the adventure ahead of you.”

And as you drift off to sleep, you can’t help but smile at the thought of the unconventional but loving family waiting just outside those hospital doors, ready to take on the world for the tiny girl in your arms.

***

The paddock rushes with activity as teams prepare for the upcoming race weekend. But between the usual hustle and bustle, an unusual sight catches everyone’s attention: you, pushing a stroller with a now six-month-old Nessa, surrounded by a protective circle of drivers.

Max hovers close, his eyes darting around warily. “Are you sure this was a good idea? Bringing her to the track?”

You laugh, adjusting Nessa’s sun hat. “Max, she’s been coming to races since she was born. This is nothing new.”

“Yeah, but now she’s old enough to attract attention,” Charles points out, cooing at Nessa as she gurgles happily.

Lando nods in agreement. “People are starting to ask questions. Did you see that article in Autosport last week?”

You sigh, remembering the speculative piece about Nessa’s parentage. “I saw it. But we knew this day would come eventually.”

As the group makes their way through the paddock, heads turn and whispers follow. The sight of eleven of the world’s top drivers fawning over one baby is certainly not an everyday occurrence.

Carlos leans in, speaking softly. “Maybe we should have come up with a cover story. You know, pick one of us to pretend to be the father.”

George shakes his head. “No, we agreed from the start — no lies. We’re all in this together, remember?”

“Easier said than done,” Logan mutters, noticing a group of journalists eyeing them curiously.

As they approach the Mercedes garage, Lewis spots a familiar face and freezes. “Uh, guys? We might have a problem.”

The others follow his gaze to see your older brother, striding purposefully towards the group. His expression is a mix of confusion and growing anger.

“Seb!” You exclaim, trying to sound casual. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Switzerland.”

Sebastian ignores your greeting, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene before him. “What’s going on here?” He demands, his gaze sweeping over the assembled drivers.

The group exchanges nervous glances, each silently hoping someone else will take the lead.

Finally, Fernando steps forward, ever the diplomat. “Sebastian, my friend. It’s good to see you. Perhaps we could discuss this somewhere more private?”

But Sebastian is having none of it. His eyes lock onto Lewis, who instinctively takes a step back. “Lewis?” He says, his voice dangerously quiet. “Care to explain why you and half the grid are hovering around my sister and a baby?”

Lewis swallows hard, looking to the others for support. Finding none, he takes a deep breath. “Seb, it’s not what you think. Well, it is, but also it isn’t. You see-”

“Lewis?” Sebastian explodes, his face reddening. “I thought better of you!”

The outburst draws even more attention, and you can see team personnel and journalists alike straining to hear what’s happening.

Lewis, caught off guard by Sebastian’s reaction, blurts out, “In my defense, I thought I would get to fuck her!”

A collective gasp goes up from the group, and you bury your face in your hands, mortified.

Sebastian’s eyes widen in shock and fury. “Tha- what? How would that make it better?”

Realizing his mistake, Lewis backpedals frantically. “No, no, that came out wrong! I didn’t mean-”

But Sebastian is beyond listening. He lunges forward, only to be held back by Alex and Oscar.

“Let me go!” Sebastian growls, struggling against their grip. “I’m going to kill him!”

Nessa, startled by the commotion, begins to cry. The sound seems to snap everyone back to reality.

“Enough!” You shout, your voice cutting through the chaos. “All of you, into the motorhome. Now!”

Chastened, the drivers file into the nearby Red Bull motorhome, with Alex and Oscar still keeping a firm grip on Sebastian. You follow, pushing Nessa’s stroller and trying to soothe her.

Once inside, with the door firmly closed against prying eyes and ears, you turn to face the group. Sebastian stands at one end, still glaring daggers at Lewis, who’s wisely put Max and Charles between them.

“Alright,” you say, your voice tight with frustration. “I guess it’s time we explained everything.”

Over the next hour, you and the drivers take turns recounting the story — from your decision to have a baby, to their unconventional offer, to Nessa’s birth and the months since. Sebastian listens in stunned silence, his expression cycling through disbelief, confusion, and finally, grudging understanding.

When the tale is finished, Sebastian slumps into a chair, running a hand over his face. “So let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You,” he points at you, “decided to have a baby on your own. And you lot,” he gestures at the drivers, “thought the best solution was to play some kind of ... paternity lottery?”

Lance nods hesitantly. “When you put it like that, it does sound a bit mad.”

“A bit?” Sebastian laughs incredulously. “It’s completely insane!”

“But it worked,” Carlos points out, gently rocking Nessa, who has calmed down and is now contentedly chewing on his finger. “Look at her, Seb. She’s perfect.”

Sebastian’s expression softens as he looks at his niece. “She is beautiful,” he admits. Then, turning back to the group, he adds sternly, “But that doesn’t excuse the fact that you all took advantage of my sister!”

“They didn’t take advantage of me,” you interject firmly. “This was my choice. They were just ... supporting me.”

“By offering to impregnate you?” Sebastian retorts, his protective big brother instincts in full force.

George steps forward, his expression earnest. “Sebastian, I know how this looks. But we care about your sister. All of us. We just wanted to help make her dream come true.”

“And create the world’s most confusing family tree in the process,” Logan mutters, earning a sharp elbow from Lando.

Sebastian sighs, looking around at the assembled drivers. “I still can’t believe you all agreed to this. Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? The media frenzy when this gets out?”

Fernando shrugs philosophically. “Life is full of challenges. This is just another one.”

“Easy for you to say,” Max grumbles. “You’re basically past retirement age. Some of us still have our whole careers ahead of us.”

The room falls silent as the reality of their situation sinks in. The secret they’ve managed to keep for over a year is on the verge of exploding into the public eye.

“So what do we do now?” Oscar asks, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

You look down at Nessa, who’s drifted off to sleep in Carlos’ arms, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing around her. “We tell the truth,” you say firmly. “Or at least, as much of it as we’re comfortable sharing.”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Lewis, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet since his earlier outburst, speaks up. “We could say that we all agreed to help you have a child, but keep the details private. No need to mention the ... um, method.”

“You mean the part where you thought you would get to fuck her?” Sebastian growls, causing Lewis to wince.

“I really am sorry about that,” Lewis says sheepishly. “It came out all wrong.”

You shake your head, exasperated. “Focus, boys. We need a plan.”

Over the next hour, the group hashes out a strategy. They decide to release a joint statement explaining that you had chosen to become a single mother, and that the drivers, as your close friends, had offered their support. The exact nature of that support would remain private.

As they finalize the details, Sebastian watches the interactions with growing amazement. The way the drivers instinctively work together, finishing each other’s sentences and anticipating potential issues, speaks to a bond that goes beyond mere friendship or even shared paternity.

“You know,” he says finally, interrupting a debate about whether to use the phrase ‘unconventional family’ in their statement, “I think I owe you all an apology.”

The room falls silent, all eyes turning to Sebastian.

He continues, his voice softer now. “I reacted badly earlier. But seeing you all now, how you’ve come together for my sister and for Nessa ... it’s actually kind of beautiful.”

You feel tears pricking at your eyes as you move to hug your brother. “Thank you, Seb. That means a lot.”

As you pull away, Sebastian turns to address the group. “But let me make one thing clear,” he says, his tone becoming stern once more. “If any of you ever hurt my sister or my niece, you’ll have me to answer to. Understood?”

The drivers nod solemnly, a mixture of respect and residual fear in their eyes.

“Good,” Sebastian says, a small smile finally breaking through. “Now, who’s going to let me hold my niece?”

As Carlos carefully transfers the sleeping Nessa to Sebastian’s arms, the tension in the room finally dissipates. Watching your brother coo over your daughter, surrounded by the unconventional family you’ve built, you feel a sense of peace wash over you.

“Well,” Lando says, breaking the moment, “I guess the hardest part’s over. Now we just have to explain this to the rest of the world.”

Alex laughs, shaking his head. “Mate, I think that might actually be the easy part. It’s raising her that’s going to be the real challenge.”

As the group dissolves into laughter, discussing potential future scenarios (“Who’s going to teach her to drive?” “All of us, obviously!” “God help us all.”), you can’t help but marvel at the strange and wonderful turn your life has taken.

Looking around at the men who have become so much more than colleagues or friends — who have become family in the truest sense of the word — you know that whatever challenges lie ahead, you’ll face them together. And really, with a support system like this, how can you possibly fail?

As the laughter and chatter continue around you, Nessa stirs in Sebastian’s arms, her tiny hand reaching out. Without hesitation, eleven hands reach back, each driver gently touching a finger or offering a thumb for her to grasp.

In that moment, watching the most competitive men in motorsport melt over one tiny girl, you know that no matter what the future holds, Nessa will never lack for love, support, or, undoubtedly, speed.

***

The sun beats down on the jam-packed karting track, the air thick with the scent of fuel and the buzz of excitement. Amid the crowd of nervous parents and eager young racers, one group stands out: eleven men, a mix of current and former Formula 1 drivers, clustered around a small kart where an eight-year-old girl sits, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and her face a mask of determination.

“Remember, Nessa,” Max says, kneeling beside the kart to look the girl in the eye, “smooth on the throttle, late on the brakes.”

Charles leans in from the other side. “But not too late, mon chou. You don’t want to lock up in the corners.”

“And watch your lines,” Lewis adds, adjusting Nessa’s helmet. “The racing line isn’t always the optimal when you’re being pressured.”

Nessa nods solemnly, taking in every word. “I know, I know. We’ve been over this a million times.”

Lando grins, ruffling her hair. “That’s our girl. You’ve got this, kiddo.”

Around them, other parents and children stare in disbelief. Whispers ripple through the crowd as people recognize the famous faces surrounding the young racer.

“Is that really Lewis Hamilton?” One mother hisses to her husband.

“And Max Verstappen!” The man replies, his eyes wide. “What are they doing here?”

A nearby father shakes his head in amazement. “I heard rumors about that kid, but I didn’t believe them. How can she have so many ... well, fathers?”

Meanwhile, you stand slightly apart from the group, watching the scene with a mix of pride and amusement. Your brother sidles up beside you.

“You know,” he says with a wry smile, “when I imagined my niece’s first race, I didn’t quite picture this circus.”

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. “Oh come on, you love it. Besides, you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

As if to prove your point, Sebastian’s eyes narrow as he spots Carlos making a last-minute adjustment to Nessa’s kart. “Hey!” He calls out, striding over. “What are you doing to her suspension?”

Carlos looks up, startled. “Just a small tweak. The track’s a bit bumpy on turn three.”

“It’s fine as it is,” George interjects, crouching down to inspect the kart. “Any softer and she’ll lose responsiveness in the chicane.”

“Actually,” Fernando chimes in, “a slight adjustment might help. But not too much, Carlos.”

As the debate over suspension settings intensifies, Alex notices Nessa’s growing nervousness. He kneels beside her, speaking softly. “Hey, little racer. How are you feeling?”

Nessa bites her lip, her eyes darting between her arguing fathers and the other young racers preparing for the race. “What if I let them down?” She whispers. “They’re all so excited.”

Alex’s expression softens. “Oh, Nessa. You could never let us down. We’re proud of you no matter what happens out there.”

“He’s right,” Oscar adds, overhearing the conversation. “We’re here because we love you, not because we expect you to win.”

“Although winning would be nice,” Logan quips, earning a chorus of groans and eye-rolls from the others.

“What Logan means,” Lance says, shooting a glare at his fellow driver, “is that we want you to do your best and, most importantly, have fun.”

Nessa nods, a small smile finally breaking through her nervous expression. “Okay. I’ll try.”

As the call comes for racers to take their positions, the group reluctantly steps back, allowing Nessa to maneuver her kart to the starting line. You move forward, leaning in to give your daughter a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Remember,” you say softly, “you’re amazing, no matter what happens out there. And we love you more than anything.”

Nessa beams at you, her earlier nerves seeming to melt away. “I love you too. And all my dads,” she adds with a giggle, looking at the assembled drivers.

As you step back to join the others, the atmosphere around you changes. The playful bickering and nervous energy give way to a focused intensity that you recognize from countless race weekends. Eleven pairs of eyes are locked on the small figure in the pink and white kart, second row on the starting grid.

The lights begin their sequence, and you can almost feel the collective intake of breath from the men around you. Green! The karts surge forward, and Nessa makes a good start, holding her position into the first corner.

“That’s it, ma princesse!” Charles cheers, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Hold your line!”

“Watch your inside on turn two,” Max mutters, as if Nessa could hear him. “There’s space if you need it.”

As the race progresses, the commentary from the drivers becomes a constant stream, analyzing every move, every overtake, every defensive maneuver. Other parents cast bewildered glances their way, clearly overwhelmed by the level of scrutiny being applied to what they had assumed would be a casual children’s race.

Midway through the race, Nessa makes a bold move, diving down the inside of the leader into a tight hairpin. The karts touch slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment, it looks like both might spin.

“Steady!” Lewis calls out, his body tensing as if he could somehow influence the outcome through sheer will.

But Nessa manages to control the kart, emerging from the corner in the lead as the other driver runs wide.

The group erupts in cheers, their earlier promises of “it’s not about winning” seemingly forgotten in the heat of the moment.

“Did you see that move?” Lando exclaims, practically bouncing with excitement. “That was pure Norris!”

“Excuse me,” Charles interjects, a proud grin on his face, “I think you mean pure Leclerc. That finesse under pressure? All Ferrari.”

“Oh please,” George scoffs good-naturedly. “That was clearly a Russell special. Calculated risk with perfect execution.”

As the friendly argument over whose racing style Nessa has inherited continues, Sebastian leans in close to you. “You know,” he says, his voice a mix of amusement and resignation, “I’m starting to think we created a monster.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, we definitely did. But look how happy they all are.”

Indeed, as you watch the men who have become your family over the past eight years, you’re struck by the pure joy radiating from them. Their focus is entirely on Nessa, their own achievements and rivalries forgotten in their shared pride for this little girl who has somehow become the center of their world.

As the final lap approaches, Nessa is still in the lead, but with another driver close on her tail. The tension among the group reaches fever pitch.

“Come on, Nessa,” Fernando murmurs, his eyes never leaving the track. “You’ve got this. Stay focused.”

“Defend the inside line,” Carlos advises, as if she could hear him. “Don’t give them any space.”

The last corner approaches, and the second-place kart makes a desperate lunge for the inside line. For a moment, it looks like Nessa might be overtaken at the last second.

“No, no, no,” Alex mutters, his hands clenched into fists.

But Nessa holds her nerve, taking a slightly wider line and using her momentum to slingshot out of the corner and across the finish line, just ahead of her rival.

The eruption of cheers from the group of F1 drivers drowns out even the sound of the karts. They jump, hug each other, and pump their fists in the air as if Nessa had just won the World Drivers’ Championship.

As Nessa brings her kart to a stop in the pit area, she’s immediately surrounded by her fathers, each clamoring to be the first to congratulate her.

“That was incredible, little love!” Lewis exclaims, helping her out of the kart.

“You drove like a champion,” Max adds, his face split by an enormous grin.

“I’m so proud of you, mon petit champion,” Charles says, pulling her into a tight hug.

The other parents watch in amazement as Nessa is passed from one racing legend to another, each offering praise, analysis, and suggestions for improvement in equal measure.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” one father mutters to his wife. “How is this fair? That kid has a whole F1 pit crew!”

His wife shushes him, but nods in agreement, her eyes wide as she watches the scene unfold.

Meanwhile, you make your way through the crowd of excited drivers to reach your daughter. As you approach, the men part to let you through, their chatter dying down.

You kneel in front of Nessa, taking in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” You ask softly.

Nessa’s face breaks into a wide grin. “That was amazing! Did you see when I overtook on the hairpin? And the last corner, I thought for sure he was going to pass me, but I remembered what Papa Fernando said about late apexes, and it worked!”

You laugh, pulling her into a hug. “I saw it all, baby. You were incredible.”

As you release her, Nessa looks around at the circle of beaming faces surrounding her. “Did I make you proud?” She asks, a hint of her earlier nervousness returning.

“Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Sebastian says, ruffling her hair affectionately.

“You exceeded all our expectations,” Fernando adds with a warm smile.

“And trust me,” Lando chimes in with a wink, “our expectations were pretty high to begin with.”

As Nessa basks in the praise and attention of her unconventional family, a race official approaches, looking slightly overwhelmed.

“Excuse me,” he says hesitantly, “but we need to do the podium ceremony now.”

The drivers reluctantly step back, allowing Nessa to follow the official to the makeshift podium. As she takes her place on the top step, her face beaming with pride, you find yourself surrounded by eleven grown men, each looking as proud as if they had just won a world championship themselves.

“You know,” Oscar says softly, his eyes never leaving Nessa as she receives her trophy, “I think we might be in trouble.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, turning to look at him.

He grins, a mixture of pride and mock fear in his eyes. “If she’s this good at eight, can you imagine what she’ll be like at eighteen? We might be out of jobs.”

The group chuckles, but there’s a note of truth in Oscar’s words. As you watch Nessa on the podium, her small hands raised in triumph, you can’t help but wonder what the future holds for this extraordinary little girl with her eleven F1 driver fathers.

But for now, as the sound of applause fills the air and you see the pure joy on Nessa’s face, you push those thoughts aside. There will be time enough for worrying about the future later. For now, you’re content to bask in this moment of triumph, surrounded by the most unconventional and wonderful family you could have ever imagined.

As Nessa runs back to the group, her trophy clutched tightly in her hands, she’s enveloped in a group hug that threatens to lift her off her feet. And in that moment, watching the pure love and pride radiating from these men who have given your daughter so much more than just their DNA, you know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, Nessa will always have the strongest support system imaginable.

After all, with her fathers in her corner, how can she possibly fail?

[gyuswhore]

Grease (the tragedy)

“Careful, those marks on the floor aren’t just oil and paint.”

jeon wonwoo x reader

word count: 5.8k

warnings: smut [minors DNI], fluff, angst, mechanic!wonu, annoyances to lovers, blind date gone wrong but then gone right, kissing, clit stuff, oral (f. rec), thigh fucking (oop), this all happens at a desk LMAO, title is a what I thought was a funny spin on how people say "grease (the musical)"....has nothing to do with the musical though but lots to do with actual grease!!!

synopsis: In which you have to sit through one of the worst dates of your life, followed by the insistent tug of fate and compulsion that lead you straight back to where you'd sworn you'd never go.

[a/n]: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY WIFE CAMOTHY @highvern everyone go say happy birthday to cam or ill appear in your room at night 🔫 anygays HAVE FUN READING THIS I hope this is all the sexy wonu content you wanted, I cant wait for your reaction hehehhehe

and also bigbigbigbig thank you to jessifer @the-boy-meets-evil for proofing this for me!!! ily heh

and and to everyone reading this who is not cam, I hope you enjoy reading mechanic!wonu as much as I liked writing him heheh PLS REMEMBER TO REBLOG AND TELL ME UR THOTS it could be in the tags, replies, an ask literally anything!!!! id love to hear what you guys think!!!!

masterlist

 [You]: do you think he died on the way [Liv]: hes still not there??? [You]: what do you think????? [Liv]: let me ask Amelia [You]: dont bother [You]: he can show up whenever he wants im leaving in 5 [Liv]: you promised you’d sit thru this!! [You]: sit thru what? an empty seat across from me???

Liv doesn’t respond immediately, and you immediately know she’s buggered off to ask her cousin why your date still wasn’t here. 

It’s not like you couldn’t have asked him yourself, the sparse textbox sitting just under Liv’s contact. You open it to inspect the contents. 

[liv’s cousin’s something]: Amelia gave me your number [liv’s cousin’s something]: friday night at the sage&salt at 7  [liv’s cousin’s something]: is that okay [You]: uh hey [You]: yeah that’s fine

Today 7:20 PM

[You]: im here?

The first thread of texts were enough to make you feel like this was some cold business meeting instead of a date, knowing wherever this would lead would be either the city dump or off a cliff. Liv was hearing none of it, taking the guilt tripping route, saying she’d already committed and her cousin was irritating enough even without a scuffle.

So when Friday evening came around you’d pulled on the first dress your fingers could find, took all of ten minutes fighting with your makeup to make it look like you did something and left the house with zero expectations. 

Despite that, as you see a man walk into the establishment dressed like he’d gotten into a fight with a squid and a paper shredder, you feel the stone in your chest tank into the abyss. Zero expectations, and he’s somehow managed to strike out anyway. 

The jacket looks like he’s put it on as a weak cover for the grime stains on his shirt and trousers, a couple jet black splatters across the outfit to really pull the whole thing together. It’s not like he looked homeless or anything, his face surprisingly handsome with his hair pushed away from his forehead. Although he remains looking like he’d been playing football in some neighbourhood parking lot before remembering he had an adult appointment too. 

You’d never seen the man in your life, but your gut told you this was the shit texter who’d kept you waiting for nearly an hour. He seems to notice too, eyes locking from across the restaurant as the waitress leads him to your table. 

“Wonwoo,” you greet with a difficult smile, half sure it came out as a grimace. “Right?”

“Yeah,” he huffs as he practically slams back down on the chair, and you wonder for a moment how the legs didn’t give out. He says your name and you nod. “Sorry I’m late, I got a call in the parking lot.”

He’s been in the parking lot this entire time?!

It’s like you’ve been doused in gasoline and lit on fire, yet somehow needing to give him a shaky reply anyway. 

“O–oh, I see.”

The waitress saves you from spitting in his face when she asks if you were ready to order. 

Dinner was off the table, as you discussed with Liv who forwarded it to her cousin to her–whoever it was that set up this god awful date–and agreed on dessert and perhaps a drink. 

“I’ll have the chocolate cake,” you request in an attempt to make this somewhat better. You consider for a moment before asking for a drink as well, “And a dry gin martini, please.”

“Um,” he staggers as he barely skims the menu, ultimately flipping it closed. “I’ll have the same, I guess.”

Deep voice. You might’ve liked that if you weren’t already so peeved. 

The waitress disappears with the menus, leaving you two alone for the first time. 

“So,” you start with an exhale. “How do you know Amelia?”

“Her husband.”

“I see.”

Silence. 

“How do you know her husband?”

He sighs like this is all inconveniencing him, and it irks you to an irrespective degree. Like you wanted to be here either. 

“He brings his car to the workshop alot, became friends somewhere along the line.”

“Workshop?”

He looks a little startled, cocking his head to the side. “I’m a mechanic? Did Olivia–was it–not tell you?”

“No, she didn’t.”

It’s silent yet again as the man across from you refuses to elaborate. You curse as you ask him a follow up question. If there was anything you hated more than shouldering a dead conversation, it was sitting through an awkward silence. 

One hour. You’d sit through this for one more hour and then you’d leave. 

“What kind of cars do you work on?”

“Expensive ones,” he answers. You might’ve kicked yourself if he’d ended it at that, but he continues with a purse of his lips. “Ones that rich people abuse to an inch of the machine’s life and wonder why the dealership gives up on it. Vintage pieces too.”

“Have I heard of it?”

“The cars?”

“No, I mean,” you let out a breath. “Your workshop.”

“Jeon Motors, just a couple streets down actually.”

You did know what he was talking about, not expecting to recognise it through the empty question, passing by it on multiple occasions in this part of the city.

“Oh, I’ve seen it a few times.”

“Yeah, we’ve been there for a while.”

“Family business?”

“Uh–sort of.” 

“Okay,” you sigh in an irritated laugh. This was going to be a very difficult hour. “Keep that to yourself too.”

“Is there a problem?”

Just as you lift your eyes to lock with his, a ready yes, there is actually a problem on your tongue, there’s an intrusion. 

“Here are your chocolate cakes,” the waitress places the cakes down, and then the drinks. “And your dry gin martinis. Do you guys need anything else?” By the time the waitress is gone you’ve somewhat forced yourself to put that sudden surge of flames out, to a degree at least. 

“Okay,” he sighs, grabbing his glass and downing nearly half the contents. He emerges, wiping a bit of a spill from the corner of his mouth. “Let’s get this out of the way.”

“Hm?” He’s speaking to you with a very weird surge of intensity, and it confuses you.

“Neither of us wanna be here. You’re clearly trying to be hospitable but I’d really rather you not, especially when we’re both doing this to get our respective ticks off our hides.”

There isn’t much you can do but stare at him. 

“Have I misjudged your advances?” he asks over his glass, sharp eyes piercing. 

“No!” you yelp, reaching for your drink yourself, taking big sips only to emerge sputtering and heaving. 

Your date looks like he’s rising out of his chair when you raise a hand to stop him. 

“No,” you repeat, less jumpy this time. “I guess we could’ve cleared that out from before.”

Did he…snort?

“Sorry.” Dropping his chin to his chest, he composes himself. 

“What?” you ask, remaining annoyed as ever. 

“Nothing.”

That does it. You slam your now empty glass down on the table, slipping your fork out of the napkin a little forcefully, the metal glinting in the light of the restaurant. You dig into a corner of the cake and shove it in your mouth. 

If he was gonna be rude, you could be too. 

“I don’t know about hospitable.” You swallow. “But I assumed not being an ass was kind of an unwritten rule for any situation really. Including the ones you’d rather not be in.”

Wonwoo stares at you with a blank face, his cake untouched. “I’m being an ass. My laugh couldn’t have offended you that much.”

“So you did pick that up,” you comment. “With the way this conversation’s going I would’ve thought it flew right over your engine.”

“I’d argue your laugh was the least offensive thing you’ve done tonight.” You plunge your fork into your cake again. “But clearly we’re in different realms of etiquette.”

Your eyes meet the rough stains on his attire, and then his own that bore into yours like a challenge. The cake isn’t too sweet, rich just the right amount and texturally sound. Maybe something good did come out of this fiasco. 

“Okay fine,” he announces, sitting up straighter. “I apologise.”

“For laughing?”

“And for being obscenely late.”

“And?”

“And…” he genuinely looks like he’s struggling to figure it out, but catches your eyes flickering to his tattered and stained outfit. “And for my entirely inappropriate dressing sense. You’ll have to forgive me for that one, oil and grime are my spoils of war.”

“Wear it like a badge, mister mechanic, but perhaps somewhere it’s appreciated.” 

Wonwoo has already finished his drink, his cake remaining untouched. “You’re quite adamant on disliking me.”

“And you’re quite adamant on being a horrid conversationalist.”

The corners of his mouth lift the slightest bit. Opening his mouth to respond, you cut him off. “Cars don’t talk? Or perhaps, machines are easier to understand?”

“More like I don’t care to be personable.”

“That can’t be good for business.”

“The cars speak for themselves.”

He’s a weird one. Even more so when he offers to pay the entire bill, promising you he wasn’t lying when he said he was good at what he does, and to “make up for lost personality points.” You manage to pay your half anyway, considering the circumstances. 

“Can you at least let me drive you home?” Wonwoo asks as you both step out of the establishment soon after. 

“Depends.” You fix the strap of your bag. “Will it fall apart on the highway?”

The blaring white of the restaurant's outdoor lights backlight Wonwoo to make him look like some sad angel. He turns to you, the same slight smirk that seems to be plastered on his face. “Why don’t you find out?”

“What do you mean sell it? I got this thing a year ago!” 

There isn’t much you can do but sigh loudly as you listen to Olivia talk about the state of her car, the one that cost too much to justify but she seemed to use and abuse like a very replaceable toy truck. 

Leaning against the hood of the darn thing, you talk to her. “The dealership is giving you a shit deal to take it off your hands, you might as well try your luck.”

The look on her face is easy to read as she silences. Not convinced in the slightest, waiting for the conversation to end just so she could figure it out on her own. Sighing loudly, you look back to the dark beauty with a crate of issues that make it spit and sputter to a stop every few weeks. 

“How much did you say the repairs cost again?”

“Enough to put me on food stamps,” she whines through her frustration, tears pricking against her eyes as they glisten under the neighbourhood streetlights. “Why are you smirking like that?!”

“It’s just,” you pause as you consider your next words, pressing your lips together. “This is a little bit your fault.”

Lies, it was entirely her fault. 

Liv stares like you’ve just offended her, which you’re sure you have.

“Care to share how this possible bankruptcy could be my fault?"

“Because you drive the thing like you have a secret reserve buried somewhere in Tenerife.”

“My apologies for making a habit of not being a public nuisance and going forty on a national highway.”

“Your speed-o-metre is not the issue here.”

“Yes, of course, everything’s my fault.”

“Liv, please!” You groan loudly. “Just…let’s try putting up a listing tomorrow. Consider the prospects and you can decide from there.”

Sagging her shoulders and stretching her neck, Liv decides to simply trudge back indoors in silence. You take it as a begrudging yes, and follow her inside. 

That very night, when you were at the very cusp of falling into the dark space of sleep, your brain re-awakens before your eyes do. A jolt as the memory comes back to you of the many months ago, sitting in that restaurant across from a man who was too handsome for the personality he seemed to sire. 

“Expensive ones,” he had said. “Ones that rich people abuse to an inch of the machine’s life and wonder why the dealership gives up on it.”

How fitting. 

“Are you going to explain or should I explode instead?” 

You’d mentally prepared for the bombardment of accusations from Liv, her questioning perfectly right as you yourself cringed at the thought of showing your face here of all places. The one last one that’d officially banned her from ever setting you up with an individual of her choosing ever again. 

Hearing only silence as her answer, she appeals; “I thought he was the worst date of your life.”

“Nothing to do with his skills as a mechanic,” you mumble, refusing to make eye contact. 

“And everything to do with this being a horrible idea anyway!” Liv stares up at the sign on top of the garage. Jeon Motors. “What makes you think this guy can fix my car?”

What did make you think he could fix Liv’s car? If you’d known you might have given her an answer, but as you stare at the giant signboard that you’ve driven past for longer than you can remember, you can’t help but feel this place has been haunting you. Just a little. 

You can’t help but feel the tingle of goosebumps rise on your skin, the hairs across the expanse standing up at the thought of walking inside. There was no way you could differentiate the reaction from plain nerves or from the cringing drills that sound all the way outside the establishment. Regardless, you make an attempt to look confident as you make your strides into the pungent of the workshop. 

The first thing you note is how…clean everything is. Cleaner than any other workshop you’ve walked into anyway. 

The interior is bigger than it looks from the outside, the ginormous hall hosting about a dozen cars within your eyeshot alone. One side of the great hall holds an array of parked cars in different stages of dismantled and deconstructed, while the other side is lined with contraptions that look like stripped and enlarged elevators. 

Once you’ve inhaled a beyond recommended amount of smoke fumes and listened past all of the clanging, banging and sparks, you register the people that are elbow deep in the hoods of the vehicle they’re working on, enough to leave you and Liv standing at the entrance of an establishment that you can barely make sense of. 

“Can I help you?” A man in stained beige overalls approaches your wide eyed pair, face half covered in his baseball hat and hands occupied with a rag. 

To your slightest dismay, it isn’t the man you’re looking for.

“Uh– is Wonwoo here?” you ask. 

“He’s in a meeting right now. Are you a friend?” 

No, just a failed love interest.

“He,” you falter. If you weren’t a friend…then what were you? “He gave me his card.”

“Do you need help with your car?”

“Mine, actually,” Liv pipes. “It’s outside if you wanna take a look first.”

With one sweeping look across the warehouse, your eyes land on one of the few doors on the left. You register the plain look of it for barely a moment before joining Liv outside. 

By the time her car has been rolled and parked inside for a more thorough inspection, it’s taken you every last grain of your willpower to not stalk back out and wait in your car. For whatever reason, you can’t help but feel a very familiar spasm of irritation spark through you. Here you are, left anxiously waiting for the same man for a second time, merely feet away but remaining occupied with more important things. 

At the very least, the multiple hands prodding around the car’s engine were being somewhat of use, attempting to survey the same issues that had been looked at about a dozen times before. You silently promise to be a better person if this trip wouldn’t be for vain.  

“Am I late for something again?” 

Your throat is suddenly clogged as you open your mouth and no sound graces your presence. The face that meets you has his eyebrows raised as he stares at you in expectation, a ghost of a smile on his face. 

“W–Wonwoo, hi, um.” You clear your throat loudly, heat cursing your cheeks. “No, of course not.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure after…four months?” he asks, hands on his hips and his back straightened.

“I…my friend’s car needed to be looked at so…”

“Ah, of course!” He turns to where you’ve motioned, looking at the popped hood of the car his employees are working on. “I’ll take a look at it myself, don’t worry about it.”

He’s already walking away, towards the car and leaving you a ways away from the action. You stare at his back; the overalls tied at the waist and the stained white T-shirt that clings to his form from the humidity.

Wonwoo remains a man of a few words, and you remain at wits end about it all. 

A loud honk gives you something to do as you jump at the sound so up close, scrambling to move away from the smack centre as another car pulls into the garage. 

“Careful, those marks on the floor aren’t just oil and paint.” Wonwoo snickers from his place hunched over the hood as he cranes his neck to look at you. 

You walk over to where he is to get out of the way. “Was that meant to sound like an innuendo?”

“I was talking about the occasional running over someone’s foot,” he answers. “Not sure what you were thinking.” 

Ignoring the jab, you note that it was now only you and him crowding the car, “Where’s Olivia?”

“Went to look at spare parts.” You watch him as his gloved hands reach further into the enclave and yank at something hard. 

“So you can fix it?” 

“The car? It’ll take a couple days but it’s not really an issue.”

Furrowing your brows, you press on, “But the dealership—”

“Dealerships are the spawn of the devil,” he grunts as he finally wrenches out a spare nut or bolt or something that’s covered in oil. “Let me guess, they wanted her to sell it back to them?”

It’s your turn to raise your brows. “Yes. They tried fixing it, but it'd just stop again.”

“Because they’ve been fixing the symptoms.” He raises his eyes to meet yours, hands occupied with rubbing the part in his hands relatively clean with a rag. “They haven’t bothered to do anything about the actual problem.” 

“Because that’s gonna cost…?”

“Couple hundred, give or take,” he announces nonchalantly, turning his focus back to the engine. 

“But—” That’s it?

“Fifty extra for every question I have to answer after this.” You briefly wonder if Wonwoo’s eyes were always this piercing, boring into your soul like he didn’t need words to know what was going on with you. 

“Fine,” you huff, moving to drag a chair over, mostly just so you could have reason to break eye contact, and plop down as you watch him work. 

The more you think about it, the more you can find yourself unbothered by his strange behaviour. He wasn’t bleak, but nowhere near one of the more interesting people you’ve met. Taking the opportunity to really scan the man head to toe, you can’t say you find anything truly concrete to be this put off by him. 

Not much of a talker, but with the times you’ve prayed for a man that knew when to shut up sometimes, you wonder how much you can actually complain about this boon in particular. 

Besides, he was a looker, and you were completely content shutting your trap if it meant you got to shamelessly ogle at him from this close. 

“You know, this place looks bigger than it does from the outside.”

Wonwoo stares pointedly. 

You raise a shoulder in nonchalance, “Wasn’t a question!”

He simply huffs as he mumbles, “More length than breadth I suppose.”

“What are those things called?” you ask as you watch a sedan get lifted into the on some platform on the other end of the row. 

Glancing back, he answers, “Post lift, car lift, whatever you wanna call it.”

“What does it do?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Touché.” 

Glancing back at him, you catch sight of his stained shirt once again. “Is that the same thing you wore to our date?”

Chin to chest, he registers what he’s wearing, hands still working on pulling bolts and boxes out of the hood. “Have about twenty of the same shirt, I can never be too sure.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirks, “Touché.” 

You questioned if this was a mistake. 

Olivia could pick up her car herself, so why did you insist to be the one that did it? As you pay the taxi driver, you feel your ankles lock for a moment as you move to slip out of the cab. Frozen, you hear the driver ask you if everything was alright, to which your legs seem to work again, finally foot to gravel in front of the dreaded workshop.

The Jeon Motors sign blares the same as it always has in the afternoon light, glinting as it encourages you to walk in and do one of the stupider things you’ve done in life. Other than the ridiculous outfit you’ve put on, of course. 

But alas, as you hand over your slip to one of the many mechanics in the workshop, you find yourself praying he wasn’t here after all, that perhaps you could miss him as you leave and never have to see him again. 

Somebody yells out his name, and the dream drifts away like smoke. 

Finding the courage, you look up to where the man shouted for him, and immediately wish you hadn’t. 

Wonwoo remains in his overalls, the same ones that he had tied to his waist the last time you saw him. His undershirt however…

The tank top is revealing too much for you to pretend you don’t care, his hair remaining pushed back and away from his forehead as he walks over to you in what feels like slow motion. He takes the slip that he does not need, smiling at you as he says his hellos. 

“Car’s all fixed up, just need some papers that need signing and you’re all set.”

“Oh, but Liv isn’t here today.”

“That’s alright, you can sign them too,” he reassures, motioning for you to walk with him towards the car. “The car was alright in the test drives, revving hasn’t caused any problems either.”

He halts in front of the now (supposedly) fixed black sedan and pats the hood lightly, “If anything happens tell her to bring it straight here, although it shouldn’t have any more problems.”

“What’s your rate of return on customers?” you ask, a slight smirk on your face.

He thinks for a moment, “Pretty crap. But I guess that means I’m doing something right.”

You consider yourself something of a helicopter parent when it comes to your own car, but perhaps you’d change that if it meant you’d get to come here a little more often. 

Goodness, what’s gotten into you.

Wonwoo’s smiling too, and for a brief moment the silence is nearly awkward. A pause before he proposes leaving. 

“Shall we go to the office then?” 

Nodding eagerly, you trail behind him as he leads you towards the other end of the workshop, passing by even more cars in all their stripped or constructed glory. Glancing in front, you catch sight of Wonwoo’s back, ensnared for a moment before you snap your head away, reciting every curse word you know like a mantra. 

“It’s less hot in here too, keep the air on all the time.” Wonwoo stands in front of the plain doors, hands on the handle to wrench it open. You recognise it as the same door you had noted a few days ago. “Would you like anything? Coffee, tea?”

“Um, just water is fine, thanks.”

It’s quite plain, beige and leather against cream walls and unfittingly white lights. There’s a desk on one corner that’s beyond cluttered with more papers than you can register, pens and other office supplies mixed into the disorganised chaos of the large tabletop.

“Sorry about the mess, I can never find time to sort through it.” To your surprise, the light tinge of his cheeks suggest he might actually feel a little embarrassed. 

Cute. 

There’s cabinets that line on one of the far walls, and you watch him take his gloves off to open it and reach for a cup. The white porcelain emerges stained with an ashy grey as his fingers betray him. He looks flustered, glancing at his hands and back up to the cabinet. 

You can’t help but laugh a little, moving forward to help. “It’s alright, let me.”

“Sorry,” he apologised again, with a sheepish look on his face. “I’ll, um, wash this off.”

“Go on, I’m here,” you reassure as you move towards the water dispenser in the corner to fill your clean cup. 

He returns with significantly cleaner hands and apologises one last time. “Seems all I do around you is apologise.”

You have the good humour to chuckle, “So I’ve noticed.”

He does well to clear out most of the clutter that’s on his desk, leaving enough room to set down a few pieces of paper as you take a seat on the opposite side. 

As you scan through the papers, he attempts to make sober conversation. “You should…bring your car around for inspections if you want.”

“Oh? Even if I ask a million questions?”

“I can make an exception or two,” he grins. 

“And if you charge me double?”

“Might not charge you at all.”

“Might?” you question as you lift the pen he’d given you to sign the first space. 

“Might.”

“And what’re the conditions for that?” 

He doesn’t answer as he ponders and you fill in the second blank. “I’ll have to think about that.”

You snort before you can help it, your last signature coming out a little wonky as your hands shake. Turning the papers over to him, you continue, “Well then, let me know when you figure it out.”

He stares pointedly as he accepts the papers before dropping his eyes again, “Can I?”

“Hm?”

“Can I? Let you know?” 

It’s like you’ve been frozen over, the typewriter in your mind jamming as it punches out the implications of what he’s saying. 

“It seems, at least to me, that we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” he continues. 

You hesitate. “I think so too.”

“I…I don’t want to put anything like pressure on you but–” 

“Would you like to try the new gelato place downtown this week?” you ask finally as you save him from his misery. “If…you’d like.”

He looks stunned for a moment before he’s scrambling, “Oh–of course! Yes, anytime is fine with me.”

“Great,” you smile, lifting from your seat. “It’s a date.”

“I’ll promise to wash my hands this time…and my shirt. And I won’t be late.” 

“Let’s not make promises we can’t keep,” you tease. 

You’re nearing the door as he follows behind, and just as you’re about to pull down on the handle, you hear him say your name. 

Turning around, almost too eagerly, you look up at him in expectation. He’s close, almost right behind you as he looks like he’s debating whether opening his mouth is a good idea. 

“Are you doing anything else today?” 

“Um,” you stutter for a moment. “I don’t have to drop off the car till later tonight, that’s all really.”

He swallows. “Do you wanna stay? Just a little while. We can stay in here, nobody comes in anyway.”

You aren’t entirely sure why you said yes, because you did actually have dinner plans with Liv later tonight, but the teeny tiny voice in your mind egged you on anyway. Besides, Liv wouldn’t mind, not if you were cancelling for this.

This entailed the very friendly contact of Wonwoo’s tongue in your mouth, and the extremely cordial way it seemed to caress your insides. If somebody asked you how it led to this, you don’t think you’d have an answer. Not that you care, especially when his hands are grabbing your waist and hips like that.

He’s already locked the door, reassuring you that nobody would find their boss and client in the smack dab middle of the devil’s tango. You take his word for it, relishing in the way his hot breath hits your skin below your ears, his mouth sucking under your earlobes as you whimper ever so quietly. 

Your hands are on his exposed biceps, feeling him up all to your heart's content. “Do you–Do you always wear stuff like this?”

He emerges, wet lipped and eyes trained. “So I wasn’t imagining it.”

“Imagining what?” you ask as you let him unbuckle your trousers.

“Please. Like you weren’t stripping me with your eyes.”

If you were warm before you, you're boiling up now. Were you being so obvious?

“It’s alright,” he reassures as you feel his fingers make contact with the crotch of your panties, pushing in to put pressure on your clit. “Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t picked up on it.”

You feel his fingers push the dampening fabric away as his fingers make contact with your hole, coating his fingers in the arousal that’s made itself known. It’s hard to not hiss at the way he begins to circle it, thanking the universe that the loud noises of the workshop outside were masking whatever evidence of the heinous crime you were committing inside. 

Back against the couch in his office, you settle into the cushions once you feel him rub at your clit, one hand spreading your lips apart as he continues to massage your own wetness onto your throbbing cunt. 

When he retreats you almost cry out, but are smothered when he plunges two fingers into your hole instead, curling them almost immediately inside you. The consistent brush of the tips of his fingers on your walls are making it difficult to keep your eyes open, and absolutely impossible to keep your moans at bay. 

“Wonwoo, that’s so good, fuck.”

Through your closed eyes, you don’t note when Wonwoo gets on his knees. But you do feel him yank your trousers off entirely, and you definitely feel him place his wet mouth flush on your lower lips, sucking at your clit as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you mercilessly. 

That’s all it takes for your noises to become increasingly high pitched, hands buried in his beautiful hair as he continues to pleasure you beyond imagination. 

“I’m so close, keep going, please, it feels so–”

He somehow buries his face in deeper, sucking harder, licking faster, and it’s enough for you to finally feel yourself collapsing on the inside, your composure dissolving as you moan so loud you’re sure they can hear it outside, even through all the clanging and revs of cars. 

There’s no way for you to know how long you lay there slumped against the couch cushions, but when you hear Wonwoo speak to you in your ear, you answer. 

“Was that okay?”

“More than okay,” you say as you grab his face and pull his lips to yours, tasting the tang in his mouth from your arousal. “Do you have a condom?”

“I–fuck,” he thinks for a moment. “I don’t think I do.”

You try not to feel too disappointed, but you sigh into his mouth anyway. 

“Can I fuck your thighs?” you hear him ask, and you might have just orgasmed again, untouched. 

“Fuck, yes you can.” 

With a yelp, you feel yourself lifted off the couch as you wrap your arms around Wonwoo’s neck, letting him guide you to his desk. “Wonwoo!”

You hear a loud crash of the desk being stripped of all its inhabitants, and your back hitting the cool of the table top. 

Wonwoo unties the arms of his overalls around his waist, letting the legs pool to the floor before slipping his hard cock out of his boxers. 

You don’t see it as you feel him lock your knees together and lift both your calves to rest on one of his shoulders. But you do feel it as he pushes the head into the seam of your thighs, watching the indent as the pink of his dick appears before you through the skin of your thighs. 

Wonwoo’s face is contorted as he pulls back and pushes back through again, this time brushing against your still sensitive clit. You gasp at contact, and immediately feel him thrusting faster. 

“Wonwoo,” you grunt. “Lower.”

He obliges, pushing his dick lower so it can rub flush against your clit as he begins to roughen up his pace. 

You moan as you feel his free hand that isn’t holding your legs trail to the ends of your shirt, caressing over your stomach to pull it up and reveal your bra clad tits. He pushes his hands under the nearest cup and begins to grope you so wonderfully with his big, warm hands. Rolling the bud between his fingers, you can only grasp onto his wrists as a handheld to keep you down on earth. 

The desk beneath you is rattling with noise, the full drawers making themselves known as Wonwoo pounds into your thighs like he would die if he stopped, mouth coming in contact with whatever skin of your legs he could reach, his breath fanning the side of your knees. 

You’re close again, and you know he is too with the way his thrusts are beginning to grow sloppy. 

“There,” he pants. “Almost.”

You orgasm for the second time, the throb your clit beyond comprehension as the rough of his dick slides across your clit mercilessly. 

“Cum like this, Wonwoo please I need to see you cum.”

And he does, shooting the heft of his load to cover your already wet cunt and thighs, landing on your stomach as he continues to ride out his high between your legs. 

The back of your head hits the table as you take in gulps of air through the aftermath of it all. Wonwoo is putting his weight on the back of your thighs, holding onto the table for support. 

“Oh, Liv is never gonna let me live this down,” you pant, lolling your head to one side as you register him. 

He peers up at you through his hair, the stupid smirk on his face, “Do you care?”

You’re smiling a little too when you answer, “Not really.”

And then your legs are off his shoulders as he nestles between them instead, diving in to lift your head and kiss you. 

And you let him, although you wouldn’t really call it too much of a kiss—not when the both of you were smiling like idiots through the clash. 

[earthtooz]

earth do you have any spare alhaitham thoughts 🥺 thinking ab him a little extra hard tonight 😵

nothing but fluff, reader and al-haitham are engaged, so much banter.

"What do you think about inviting Nahida to our wedding?"

Al-Haitham looks at you incredulously, blinking slowly to register your question. You know a lengthy discussion is imminent when he uncrosses his leg, a habit of his whenever he needs to prepare for a conversation that requires most of his attention.

"You don't mean Lesser Lord Kusanali, do you?" He asks and you nod, as if it is typical to invite a god to one's wedding. "Dear, do you understand what you are asking right now?"

"I do," you sit down beside him, Zaytun peach in one hand and a small knife in the other, cutting up slices that you feed him.

"Then do you realise how ludicrous your question is?"

"I think you are overcomplicating it."

His book snaps shut. "Am I? Or is it appropriate because you just suggested inviting an archon to our very ordinary wedding?"

"You still think you're ordinary after overthrowing a corrupt government and being promoted by said archon?"

"You're crazy," Al-Haitham murmurs, shaking his head with an affectionate smile, one that he always likes to conceal by pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You poke his side gently. "Then we are cut from the same cloth."

"That does not diminish your madness."

Still, you persist. "Well, you haven't said anything in response to my suggestion."

"I called you crazy."

"You haven't said anything I want to hear."

Once again, he sighs, but the noise is too airy to hold any true malice. "Even if I reject your idea, you would personally go to the Sanctuary of Surasthana and deliver the invite yourself."

Instead of answering, you merely feed him another slice of the Zaytun peach, smile growing more and more mischievous.

There is a reason Al-Haitham wants to spend the rest of his life with you. The bouts of delightful juvenility paints endless blotches of colour on his plain canvas, carving a certain feeling of warmth and admiration in his chest that no one else has managed to recreate.

No one compares to you, and he's certain no one ever will because even after all these years of knowing and loving you, every moment he spends with you is as priceless as divine knowledge. Even when you ask ridiculous questions that perplex him greatly.

"How do you even deliver messages to the Sanctuary of Surasthana?" You wonder.

A kiss to your temple halts your thinking. "Let's find out another time. How did this idea of inviting Nahida spring about?"

You shrug. "I was merely thinking back. She's always been so thoughtful and kind to her subjects, even when the Akademiya hid her from us. Then the idea of inviting her made itself quite at home."

"I see," he hums. "Ever so thoughtful."

"Maybe it's a good omen for our partnership to invite an archon. She won't have to bring a present, her presence alone is enough."

Al-Haitham huffs. "My faith in our relationship exceeds that of a good omen, but I agree."

"Aww, you love me that much?"

"Do you still doubt me?"

"Still?" You parrot. "Darling, I've never doubted you."

"I'd like to contest that. Remember when you were vehemently against me resigning as the Acting Grand Sage?"

You feed him another slice. "It gave me bragging rights! Who else could claim that their hot boyfriend-now-fiancé was the Grand Sage?"

"So you prefer when I'm away at the Akademiya working tirelessly from dawn to dusk?"

"Well, no," you set the knife and pit of the peach down before throwing your arms around his neck, pressing yourself close to him. "I prefer having you all to myself."

Al-Haitham huffs triumphantly and you stay pressed close to him for a while, watching as he returns to his novel. He flips back to his exact page despite the lack of a bookmark.

"I'll be sure to send the invite to Nahida tomorrow."

"Alright."

Two days later, you wake to a message written in beautifully precise handwriting on Al-Haitham's blackboard.

'Can Wanderer be invited too? - Nahida'

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Second Time's The Charm: Christmas

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: Christmas in the STTC Universe

"Alexia!" Mapi shrieks," Alexia! Stop ignoring me! Alexia!"

Alexia hums to herself, hunched over her phone as she scrolls through another website.

Mapi, however, forces her way through mountains and mountains of stacked boxes to get to the other side of the room.

The locker room is covered in boxes from top to bottom with some even crammed into areas that they really shouldn't be able to be forced into.

"Ale! Alexia!"

Alexia looks up in shock. "Oh! Mapi! When did you get here?"

"About ten minutes ago! Which you would know if you didn't have this place stocked up like the back room of a shoe shop!"

Alexia frowns. "What do you mean? There's only five boxes of shoes here."

"I wasn't being literal!" Mapi snaps before massaging her temples with her hands. "What is all this stuff?! And why is it here?!"

"They're presents," Alexia says it like Mapi's dumb," For Christmas."

"Obviously but why are they here?"

"Well, I couldn't leave them at home. Maya's in that exploring stage so she'd get curious and try to look through them. And Elena's learning to crawl and this stuff would just get in way."

"So you thought that you would put all the presents for your whole family in here? With us?"

"No," Alexia scoffs," Don't be silly, Mapi."

"This is only temporary then? Thank god because I-"

"This is only Maya's gifts. Elena's are in one of the meeting rooms and y/n's are hidden at Alba's...Mapi? Are you okay? Your face is turning an odd colour."

Mapi's dramatic walk off is hindered somewhat by smacking her nose straight into a pile of boxes and nearly falling back into another one but, eventually, she manages to storm out and straight upstairs to your office.

You're sitting in your desk chair, looking through player health files or something when the door is slammed open.

"Your wife is crazy!"

"And hello to you too, Mapi. Come on in!"

"Crazy!" Mapi repeats, pacing in short, aggravated circles," She's crazy! The locker room is covered! Covered! In Christmas presents for your daughter! You have to get her to stop!"

You don't have a time to reply because the door swings open again and Alexia bursts in.

"Amor!" She cries," I found the cutest little booties for Elena! Look! Look!"

"No..." Mapi says softly," No...This-This can't be happening..."

"They're so cute!" You tell Alexia with equal enthusiasm," She'll love them so much! Order them! Order them!"

Alexia types in the delivery address and her card details and orders it happily before looking up.

"Where did Mapi go?"

It's a question that neither of you really dwell on that much as you show Alexia your own present ideas.

Wrapping the presents the night before isn't an easy task and you get the feeling that you and Alexia might have gone just a bit overboard. It's only a fleeting thought as you and Alexia wrap the boxes and tie them off with bows, writing sweet messages to your daughters on them even though neither of them can read just yet.

"We're all sleeping together tonight, right?" Alexia asks as she finishes off her last present, placing it in Elena's sizable pile.

"Us and the girls, definitely," You agree," I'm not sure if you'll get all the dogs and Mr Stinky in bed with us."

Mr Stinky looks up from his spot on the special pillow that's reserved just for him on the sofa. The tumours on his body have gotten much bigger now and he's getting weaker and weaker by the day.

He's got one more scan to come back to see if anything can be done but this could be his very last Christmas.

"Mr Stinky won't mind," Alexia assures you," He loves cuddling in our bed."

"And Lady?"

"Lady loves cuddling too!"

"And Sinky and his sisters?"

Alexia purses her lips. The puppies are still a bit wild and excitable at times, none of them ever content to just stay in one place even though the bed is more than big enough for everyone to fit into it.

"We'll leave the bedroom door open," Alexia says sagely, nodding her head like she's just cracked the secrets of the universe," So they can come in if they want."

"Alright," You say, standing up and stretching your back," I'm going to bring Mr Stinky up and then grab Elena. You'll let the dogs out one last time and get Maya?"

Alexia nods, drawing you back for a moment by your waist to press a kiss to your lips.

"I will, amor."

"Good," You say," And hurry up."

Alexia nods along with a smile, already heading to open the back door for the dogs.

Your footsteps approaching again makes Alexia turn and you speak directly in her ear.

"And I've got a very special present for you tomorrow when the girls have gone to sleep."

"Oh?"

You giggle right in her ear, low and sultry. "You're going to have a lot of fun unwrapping me for Christmas."

[formulaforza]

— caught in a blue summ. but to love her is to need her everywhere (a gentle kind of love) charles x fem reader, wc 4.1k ish, no warnings, no y/n! fueled by one single praise from @silverstonesainz

You’re three paragraphs into an all-too-lengthy work email when he sits down in the chair next to you silently, one elbow on the sage green tablecloth. He sits in the chair sideways, something you can both see and feel, even without looking away from your phone screen. His presence is accompanied by the gentle thud of two heavy glasses. 

You look over briefly—long enough to suggest to him that his presence is mildly perturbing—and then return your attention to the email. You can hardly concentrate over the jazz band in the corner of the hall, rotating through their collection of love songs sung in different romance languages, and now a strange man has set up camp next to you, only further reminding you why you shouldn’t be responding to emails when you’re out of office. 

“Hi,” he says, after more seconds of silence. 

You finish your email before you give him the time of day. “Hi,” you smile, soft but forced. “Who are you?”

“Charles,” He smiles, holding his hand out to shake yours. You stare at his waiting hand until he takes it away. “Nice to meet you,” he laughs, moving one of the drinks closer to you. “For you. White Negroni. Céline told me it’s your drink.”

You give him a sideways glance before looking past him, scanning the reception hall for your friend. She should stand out in her bridesmaid dress. The wedding invite had specifically requested guests to follow a color code, and nobody was wearing that shade besides the bridesmaids. Your eyes finally land on her, glass of champagne in her hand, long blonde hair falling over her shoulders, leaning over to whisper something to the groom—her brother. No doubt the two of them conspiring, a theory only proved when Mathéo’s eyes land on yours from across the room. You roll your eyes. 

“How do you know Céline?” you ask, as if half the guests here tonight aren’t related to her. 

“I went to school with Mathéo,” he says, and you nod slowly, confusion growing, curiosity peaked. “I suppose technically I went to school with Céline as well.”

“I went to school with Céline,” you say, and Charles furrows his brows. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, and you laugh softly, picking up the drink he’d offered, pulling the garnish off the lip of the glass and dropping it on top of the ice. “I’m serious!” He says, matching your laugh, taking a sip of his drink. “Because I would remember you. And I do not remember you.”

“I’m sure,” you shake your head, bringing the glass to your lips. “Lycée. Première.”

Charles nods. “That is why. I was graduated by then.”

Someone laughs so loud at the next table over that it steals both of your attention. It’s the mother-of-the-bride, and she's visibly drunk in a way that only a divorced French socialite can manage. The sudden attention tones her down, and the room is once again filled with wealthy laughter and crisp clinking crystal glasses. 

You love weddings. You love this wedding; the delicate scent of blooming lavender, the smoked salmon canapés and delicate foie gras pâté that sit half-eaten at most of the tables, the perfectly chilled glasses of champagne waiting to be toasted, and the sun. The golden sun that casts itself across the terraces and into the tall windows, painting the dancing figures in golden hues. 

And then he’s speaking again, and you look back at him, and the sun casts a warm shadow through his brown hair that you're noticing for the first time. “Parles-tu français?” he asks. 

You wince, tilting your head to the side, holding up two fingers pinched together. “Un petit peu. Je suis grec,” you explain, pulling your hair around to drape over one shoulder. 

“Ah,” he says. “How do you say, ‘Would you like to dance?’ in Greek?”

You smile gently, taking another sip of your drink. It’s important to keep yourself paced. Especially when you’re staring at someone who looks like that. “Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?” You finally say, and he stares at you blankly. The expression forces a laugh from you, which in turn pulls one from him. 

“Again?”

“Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?”

Charles nods for what feels like a very extended period, before downing the remainder of his drink. “Tha horeps…” he winces at his pronunciation so you don’t have to, “mazi-moo?”

You smile at his hopeful expression, and wonder if he’s more hopeful for a correct pronunciation or an agreement to dance. You shrug, swirling your drink around the glass, looking past him to your friend again. 

She’s watching you this time and wears a grin the size of the wedding. She holds up both her thumbs, and then makes a heart with her hands, pretends to have it beating out of her chest. You shake your head, smiling softly, eyes moving back to Charles. 

“One dance.”

— — — 

Your feet drag across the stone pathway like maybe you’ll slow yourself down and get to spend a half-second longer on the phone with him. You hear it over the voices of drunken uncles pouring from open windows and the radio sat on one of the sills playing a Christiana classic. The air is warm, but dry, and the elastic at the end of your braid tickles the skin on your back while you walk. 

Ahead of your scraping shoes, a cat cleans their paw in the yellow of a porch light. You’re in Paros, and life is so sweet you’re finding porch lights and the smell of your yia-yia’s karidopita to be the most romantic thing in the world. 

“I’m nearly home,” you hum into your phone’s receiver. He laughs on the other end, and you wish all the aunts with the drunken, ballad-performing husbands could hear it so they’d stop asking when you’re going to settle down. It would make sense to them, then, the way you behave about Charles. It would all make sense if they heard him laugh, if they could imagine his dimples. 

“Well, you should probably hang up, then,” he says. You roll your eyes. Your cheeks ache from smiling all evening. Your cousin joked before dinner that your face was going to freeze like that if you weren’t careful. 

“I should,” you agree, but you don’t hang up. You stay on the line, quiet, and stop in front of the resident street cat—he’s small and sweet and purrs against your skin when you run your hand over its sleek black fur, scratch your nails under its chin. You’d bring him home if you knew he didn’t belong to someone, to everyone. “Or you could.”

He laughs again. It’s like honey. You’d swan dive into it if you could, drown all slow and blissfully. “I’m not the one nearly home,” he retorts. I could get far from home again, you think. You could do another lap around the neighborhood. You’d already done it thrice, and then two more times after that. What’s another in the grand scheme of things? “I’ll call you again in the morning,” he says, like it’s routine. You suppose it’s sort of becoming that. 

You take a seat on your porch steps. Voices pour out louder, now. They’ve gotten rowdier with every lap you’ve done. A cousin pulls the old squeaky door open behind you, and you jump in your seat, turning around to see who’s busted you. They hold their hands up defensively, mouth a quick sorry like they’d walked in on you changing, and disappear back into the house. You pull your braid over your shoulder, twirl it around your finger carefully. Nervously, you ask:“Do you think we speak too often?”

“Why do you say that?”

You shrug like he can see it. “We talk too much to be friends.”

“Do we?” You imagine him quirking a brow goofily, based solely on his tone of voice. 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, dropping your braid. “Yeah, I think we do.”

Charles sighs. All you can smell is cinnamon and walnuts. You wonder which one of your cousins ate the heel of the bread while you were out walking. “Well, good thing I would never be just friends with you, then.”

The apples of your cheeks burn like they’d been pinched. You flatten your dress over your legs and a careful giggle tumbles from your lips, teeth biting down on the stupid smile there. “Good thing.”

“Goodnight?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Goodnight.”

— — —

It’s raining in Milan when you pinky promise your best friends that you and Charles aren’t dating. 

The sky has been threatening all afternoon, dull and gray and humidity that was anything but friendly to your hair. It poured through the window like your own personal heatwave every time you walked past the open kitchen window,coated the tiled countertop in an irritable condensation. 

It came wafting through the air with the smell of the impending storm when you opened the door to your friends. Finally, after hours of building up, heavy raindrops patter against the porcelain of your kitchen sink, forcing you to hastily close the window while giggles pour from your friends’ mouths. 

Between your two hands, you can count the number of times the lot of you have been in the same time zone since graduation, let alone the same city. You’d spent the entire humid day wiping condensation off the counters and cutting cheese into perfect cubes and gathering the nicest bundles of grapes you could from the three grocery shops within walking distance. 

The sound of the storm against the glass is drowned out by red-wine laughter and tales of big cities and big dreams, all so vastly different. You sit with your legs crossed underneath you, phone face-up on your thigh, the stem of an empty wine glass pinched between two fingers, twisting the glass around mindlessly.  

Your phone buzzes, for the fourth time in eight minutes. And for the fourth time in eight minutes, you pick it up, abandoning glass on the cluttered coffee table next to the week-old vase of pink anemones. 

Stop texting me, he’s messaged. Enjoy your time with your friends.

You smile softly, your incriminating grin illuminated bright OLED white in contrast to the soft yellow lamp lighting the dim room. You stop texting me, you replied, because you’re a pig-tailed girl on the schoolyard when you talk to him, your normally composed, carefully developed persona melting into a puddle of mush at the mere thought of him. 

Can’t, he responds. I am bored. 

Why? You’re never bored.

“Oh, my God!” your best friend, Roma, teases in broken English, her Italian accent not nearly as light as the cube of ​​Gorgonzola she’d tossed at your head from the other end of the sofa. “Who are you speaking to?” She questions. 

“Just a friend,” you say too quickly, too defensive for anyone in the room to believe. 

Roma quirks her brow at you, curious grin painted on her face. “Yeah? Just a friend?”

“I’m serious,” you insist, turning your phone off. You set it face down on the table, and it vibrates there almost immediately, all of your friends’ eyes watching for your reaction. The corners of your lips tremble, fighting a soft smile, and you shrug, bringing your empty wine glass to your lips, turning your head up to the ceiling, the last few drops of red falling through your lips. And then it vibrates again, the bright colors of your background pouring out in a soft ring of light around your phone. You still don’t flinch, but Roma does, lurching forward and snatching it up before you have time to react. 

“‘Because,” she reads. “‘I’m normally speaking with you at this time,’” she looks over to another friend, grinning,“From Charles. With the emoji that does like this,” she says, mimicking the blushing emoji you have next to his name.“But with the pink on the cheek, yes?” She continues explaining. 

You sink into the sofa, popping that cube of cheese into your mouth before gathering up the baby hairs and bangs that had fallen loose from your ponytail, carefully twisting the hair into a tiny, thin braid coming out from the middle of your hairline. 

“Just your friend?” Roma questions, and you don’t have to look up from your distraction braid to know she’s raising her brows and grinning at you. 

— — — 

You sit next to him in the fourth row of church pews, one leg crossed over the other, desperately wishing the wedding mass program that sat on your lap was a paper fan, not yet having resorted to the lengths some of your fellow guests had gone to and actually using the cardstock to cool down. 

One leg is crossed over the other, the tip of your heel-clad foot threatening to tap the back of the pew in front of you with every awkward, uncomfortable roll of your ankle you attempt. At least your dress is sleeveless, you think. Charles is not as lucky, a formal suit perfectly fitted to his frame, one arm draped behind you over the back of the pew, his fingers mindlessly twirling one of the tiny braids that riddle your ponytail. Neither of you speak nearly enough Spanish or know nearly enough people for this to be any sort of enjoyable. 

“Do you understand them at all?” You whisper, your head falling onto his shoulder. “Because I do not.”

“Absolutely not,” he whispers back, kissing the top of your head, his hand finding yours, interlocking in your lap. “And I am about to die from heatstroke.”

You nod. “You, me, and the rest of the church,” you sigh, pretending not to hear the crying baby or the stressed mother in the back of the church. You figure she has the eyes of enough judgy relatives to drown out any soft sentiments from a stranger.  “Can they just kiss and wrap it up?” You ask, and as is on cue, the newlyweds are locking lips under the cathedral candlelight. 

“Oh shit,” Charles giggles, the two of you hurrying to stand with everyone else in the room who understood what's been happening for the last hour and a half. You hastily adjust the skirt of your dress, feeling quickly to make sure you hadn’t sweat-stained the fabric, or worse, the bench you’d been all but stuck to. “Thank God,” he says, just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear. 

The church quickly funnels out of the church behind the couple, filing into the cars that were driving to the reception location. Police officers line the road on either side, cameras and strangers gathered at their barriers. You walk out with your hand interlaced in his, watching every step you take down the steep concrete stairs. 

“Is it like this every time one of you gets married?” You ask, staring at the uniformed officers. They’re a stark contrast to the summer air, to the leaves of the trees drenched in sunlight, and to the flowers buzzing with bees. It feels like you’re at a royal wedding—the ones with professional watchers and ceremonies that get broadcast to millions of people around the world. But it’s not that. It’s just your boyfriend’s teammate. 

“Um,” Charles shrugs. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” he admits. “I don’t think so,” he continues, letting you duck into the black sedan first. “I think it’s just his family.”

“Gosh,” you breathe out, relaxing in the calm of the air-conditioned car. “It’s like a whole production.”

“I know,” he shakes his head, uncapping a water bottle that was waiting in the car door cup holder and passing it to you first. “It’s like they’re Spanish royalty or something,” he laughs. 

You nod animatedly, drinking down the water before passing the now half-full bottle to him. “Exactly like that!” you laugh. 

— — — 

“Three wishes,” you grin, spinning around to face him, antique Arabian oil lamp in your hand. 

The second-hand shop smells like vintage leather and dusty velvet. La Dolce Vita plays from the store radio, and it sounds like it’s on vinyl even though it isn’t. The store is full of gaudy outfits and gaudier decor, and there in the middle of it is you and Charles, the ladder laughing every time the former makes the same joke about twenty different items, each uglier than the one before, being ‘just what I was looking for.’

“I wish for unlimited wishes, obviously,” He says, and you shake your head.

“Absolutely not. That goes against Genie rule number three.”

It’s chilly, the early morning dew still crisp in the air. A gentle breeze pours in from the propped open door, and with it comes the smell of fresh pastries and espresso from the bakery next door. It smells gentle and warm and makes the vintage store feel like your yia-yia’s house on the last morning of your last visit to her house. 

You’re wearing your favorite pair of jeans, a pair of pink sneakers, and a sweater that was your favorite before you shrunk it a size in the dryer the day before. You cover up the fashion faux pas with a tan wool coat and long, hardly managed hair. He’s dressed like you, but elevated. Always more elevated than you, even if the only brand he seems to bring into his closet anymore is his friend’s. 

“Ah,” he nods, pulling you closer by the opening of your coat.  “Of course,” he smiles, speaking softly. “And what are the other rules?”

“Oh, you know,” you shrug, dimples digging into your cheeks at the mere sight of his. “No bringing people back from the dead, no making someone fall in love,” you hum, “and no wishing for more wishes.” 

Charles quirks a brow, dropping his head to the side. “Those are stupid rules,” he protests, pouting. “What if those were all three of my wishes?”

You shrug, holding up the lamp to his eye level. “Got to get educated on Genie’s, man,” you tease, cheeks aching. “I don’t know what to tell you,” you giggle, stepping even closer. “Them’s the rules.”

“Them’s the rules,” he repeats. “How about…” he says, leaning in, still grinning. “Wish one,” he says, pressing a soft kiss into your lips. “Wish two,” he says, repeating the action. “And,” he grins, pulling away momentarily to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. You think you could die on the spot, melt right into a puddle on the shop floor. Your face is so hot. “Wish three?” he says, and as a surprise to nobody, leans in to kiss you again. 

“Nope,” you shake your head, desperate for another breeze to blow through the shop, to cool you down, to keep you standing. “I expected better wishes. Very… μη πρωτότυπο.”

“Mi protótypo?” he repeats, and your grin grows.

“Not original.”

— — —

Charles’ apartment couldn’t be more different than yours, and not even solely on a decoration level. Fundamentally, you two come from two different spaces, and trying to merge those spaces has been nothing short of a treat. 

Not that your decor styles are the same either, because you think his are one-of-kind. So one of a kind, that the two of you had gone through each other’s apartment with yard-sale stickers from the corner store, tagging everything you refused to mesh with in red, and everything you refused to part with in green.  Who else can say they have three dozen racing helmets and trophies in the living room, a blown-up shot of a homeless American man on their dining room wall, and a piano that costs more than your net worth in the foyer? That is some perfectly Charles Leclerc decor, and if you had told yourself once that you would be endeared by all of it, you’d have laughed in your face. 

But you do. You adore it, the way it perfectly encapsulates her personality. And you adore him, and the way he put a green sticker on a total of seven things in his whole apartment because he wanted to make sure it felt like your space too. 

“Why did you not label any of these boxes?” He asks, the two of you stood in his dining room. In your dining room. In the dining room. 

“Um…” you hesitate. “You know, I was going to. I really was,” you nod, staring at at least twenty cardboard boxes, each of them completely indistinguishable from the others, not a single identifying marker on any of them. 

“And then?” He asks, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, the herringbone hardwood creaking under his feet with the shifting of his weight. 

“And then I realized I packed my Sharpie,” you nod.

“Mmm,” he hums, scratching his beard, his fingers moving over his face and into his hair, combing through it stressfully. He’s so patient with you. Hopelessly patient with you, and would never admit it. “But you could not find the box it was in?” You shake your head, agreeing with his statement. “Because you forgot to label any of the boxes?”

“Because I didn’t label any of the boxes,” you confirm, an apologetic look painted across your face, eyes soft and sweet, attempting to remind him just how much he loves you. “And suddenly the movers were there. And now I’m here.”

“Oh,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around your chest from behind, kissing the top of your head. “I love you so much,” he says. “I love you so much,” he repeats, voice blank, unconvincing. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I was thinking we start in the dining room,” you joke, smiling softly, pulling a chuckle from his lips. You can always count on him to laugh at your stupid jokes. Even when he’s pretending not to be annoyed with you.“I’m sorry,” you say softly, kissing the forearm crossed over your chest. 

“I know,” he hums. “It’s okay. It won’t be too bad.”

— — — 

A soft summer breeze floats through the air, blows through the linen pinned to clotheslines in the neighborhood. It brings with it salt air and the careful wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg and eggplants and tomatoes. You sip a glass of Retsina, ignoring the bitter and accepting the sweet. 

The olive trees are draped in endless strings of lights, and gentle, traditional music plays from the live band and the wooden stage your uncles had built with your dad. Your Yia-yia moves around from table to table pinching the cheeks of your cousins, reminding the single girls to check their shoes for their prince charmings. 

The sun is setting on the water, golden shadows cutting around the soft cement architecture. The air is light. Charles wears a tan linen suit with an evil-eye boutonniere. You wear a white dress and a cold coin in your left shoe. 

“You told them no to the money, right?” He asks softly, sipping a glass of white. 

“I did,” you nod. “Well. I told my parents,” You shrug. “Whether or not they convey the message to the four hundred other people here, I guess we’ll find out.”

“It’s weird, no? A first dance and a last dance?”

You smile softly, watching a stray cat hurry down an alleyway. “My family keeps coming up to us and pretending to spit,” you giggle, “But the second dance is where you draw the line in the weird sand?”

“None of it’s weird” he shakes his head, reaching to tuck a curly piece of hair behind your ear, adjusting your veil accordingly. “It’s all you,” he says, leaning in to kiss you softly. His lips are soft, and he tastes like apples and melon and citrus, as easy to kiss as ever. “And I love you.”

“Ah,” you nod, a teasingly soft smile parting your lips. “He loves me,” you say, pretending to wipe sweat from your brow. “I was worried.”

“You act very worried,” he grins. “Wedding dress and all.”

“Oh,” you feign surprise as if you've noticed the setting for the first time. “This old thing? The one that costs a quarter of my salary?”

Charles nods, humming. “That’s the one. Keeps taking my damn breath away.”

You look down at yourself, an innocent, girlish smile draped over your lips, the pink shades of the sunset painting themselves warm over your cheeks. A gust of wind blows through the space, the breeze gently blowing through your veil, through the fabric of your dress. 

“Are you ready?” You ask, watching the sun creep closer to the horizon, be swallowed up inch by inch into the sea, using your hand as a shade-visor. “No time like the present, right?” You add, downing what’s left in your glass. “Our second dance as newlyweds.”

“Our second dance,” Charles nods, holding out his hand, waiting for your fingers to interlock with his. “Let’s go.”

[lulunothulu]

Okay but imagine…

A drunk Jake “Hangman” Seresin

Your call-sign: Sparrow

“Ohhh, Y/N!” You hear from behind you.

You turn away from the conversation you were having with Natasha and Bob to see your best friend and roommate, Jake, stumbling over to you.

“Jake,” you smile up at him.

“Did you know your hair looks so pretty in the light?” He asks.

“No, but I can imagine,” you grin up at him, looking behind him to see an equally smiley Bradley and Javy. “Do you need some water?”

Jake only shakes his head, finishing off his beer and wrapping his arms around you in a bear hug. “What I need is a kiss.”

“A kiss?” You ask, heart pounding in your chest.

Jake nods, leaning in close to your ear. He whispers, “I think your lips would be the softest most beautifulest lips I’ve ever wanted to kiss.”

A blush creeps up your neck, you’d wanted to kiss him yourself for the past few years but was scared to ruin the friendship.

Now that Jake was basically admitting that he wanted to kiss you, you couldn’t help but feel your heart flutter. That was, until you remembered that he is absolutely drunk, and there was no way that he could actually want to kiss you. 

“Let’s get you home,” you tell him instead. “Let me finish my water and we’ll get out of here.”

“Nooo!” He whines. “I wanna stay here and kiss you in front of everyone.”

You finish your water, turning to face Jake with a fake frown and hands on your hips.

Jake’s sage green eyes light up in delight. “You look so hot when you do that.”

You glance around the group, watching as they smirk and stifle down laughs. Eyes falling on Bradley, you smile. “Thank you for volunteering to help me bring Bagman here to his car.”

“Fuck,” Bradley mutters.

Bradley helps you grab one of Jake’s arms and pull him toward the exit, Jake talking your ear off.

“Sparroooooow,” Jake says to your left. “You’re so soft! How do you do that?”

“It’s called a shower loofah,” you chuckle.

“And you smell sooooo nice,” he goes on. On the other side of him, Bradley laughs earning him middle finger from you. “Bradshaw, Rooster my boy, leave my girl alone. She’s mine!”

Bradley looks over at you, a smirk on his mustached lips. “Oh, is she now?”

“Yup!” Jake says, lips popping at the ‘P’. “She’s mine, but she doesn’t know it…so don’t tell her.”

Jake turns to you on his right and drawls, “What’s up, Y/N?! I didn’t see you there!”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” you groan, trying to unlock his truck to put him in the passenger seat.

“Do I get to be a passenger princess tonight?” He asks Bradley.

“It looks like it, man,” Bradley laughs.

“I’m gonna be the prettiest princess ever!” Jake exclaims, causing you and Bradley to exchange looks and try to choke down your laughs.

Jake focuses on you before adding, “Actually, my Sparrow here is the prettiest princess I’ve ever met and seen.”

“Okay,” you say, hoisting yourself over Jake’s lap to cock the seatbelt in place. “Let’s get you home.”

Before you can get off his lap, Jake wraps his arms around you and pulls you close. You’ve been close to him before, but this feels different.

He’s warmer than normal—which says a lot because Jake is a furnace. His eyes are bloodshot and glossy, making his green eyes appear even more green with a mix of blue. His face is clear, save for the blush on his checks from the alcohol.

Behind you, Bradley clears his throat. You turn in time to see him take a picture of you and smile. “I just want a picture to show your future kids.”

“Bradley…” you squint.

“Our kids?!” Jake exclaims excitedly. “Are you pregnant?!”

“Bradshaw!” You scold. “Look what you started!”

Jake is crying—still holding you—and touching your belly. “I’m gonna be a daddy!”

Bradley only laughs. “Have fun, mommy!”

“I hate you,” you mutter as you scramble out of Jake’s arms and around to the driver’s seat.

———

By the time you pull into the driveway of yours and Jake’s bungalow, Jake has calmed down—and sobered up—enough to get out of his seat and walk alongside you to the front door.

The night is quiet, warm air blowing around you both like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. You’re about to unlock the front door when you feel Jake’s eyes on you. Turning, you face him. His eyes are unreadable but his face gives himself away.

He remembers what he said fifteen minutes ago.

“Y/N,” he starts. “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

You sigh, unlocking the door and pushing the door open. “You didn’t ruin my night.”

Jake gestures for you to enter the house first before following you inside. You feel him watching as you kick your shoes off and line them on the wall closest to the table in the entryway.

When you look up at him, you see a blush creep up his neck and ears.

“What?” You ask.

“I wasn’t lying when I said you’re the prettiest person I’d ever seen,” he whispers. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Now it’s your turn to blush. You weren’t a bad looking person, but you never considered yourself to be the prettiest person in the world, much less Jake’s world.

You’d watched him flirt and pick up all sorts of beautiful women for the past few years. And never once did you think he’d find you equally attractive.

“Sure, Jake,” you mutter, beginning to turn away.

He stops you, grabbing your arm and twirling you to face him. He’s pulled you close to his body, warm and muscular.

Jake tilts your head to face him before saying, “I’m serious. Why do you think I haven’t been bringing so many girls over?”

It’s been a few months since you’d seen him with any women but that never clicked in your brain until now.

“So you’re saying you haven’t brought women over because you’ve been thinking of…me?” You clarify.

“That’s exactly it.”

“You’re drunk,” you tell him. “If you remember tomorrow morning, tell me you mean it.”

To your surprise, Jake smiles down at you. “I’ll remember.”

———

The next morning, Jake is in the kitchen making you both some French toast and bacon—the scent alone waking you from your sleep.

The sight of him dancing to “The Man” by The Killers makes you want to smile. He’s so carefree around you. That’s what drew you in to him when you first met.

Sure he was flirty, but as soon as you two got to know one another, he dropped the playboy act and was just…Jake.

“Are you making french toast?” You ask, laughing when Jake practically jumps a foot in the air.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he chuckles, grabbing his chest. “And yes, I’m making french toast with bacon.”

“Extra crispy for me?” You ask, jumping to sit on the counter next to him.

“Extra crispy for you,” he replies, a smile plastered on his handsome face.

“Cool.”

You watch for a bit as he finishes up the last of the bacon and french toast, admiring the way he relaxes to the beat of the next song playing on the speaker behind him. He’s nodding his head and mouthing the song, “Rock You Like A Hurricane”, while he places some pieces of bacon on a plate.

When he glances your way, he flashes you a quick smirk before opening your legs and stepping between them.

“What’re you doing?” You ask, hesitantly placing your hands on your lap.

Jake grabs your hands, wrapping them around his neck before placing his own on your hips.

Your heart is racing, every part of your body is vibrating under his touch—his gaze really—on you.

“Y/N,” he starts, looking uneasy. “I think you’re the prettiest person I’ve ever met and seen. I think you’re the sweetest person in my life and I think—no, know—that I have feelings for you. I only realized a few months back when I saw Bradley’s arm around your waist that I don’t want other people touching you.”

“Jake—”

“Let me finish,” he interrupts with a smile. “Deep down, I think I always knew you were the woman for me. I think that’s why I always tried to distract myself with other women but now that I finally realize it…”

Jake takes a deep breath, eyes fluttering a bit before they lock on yours again.

“I’m never letting you go.”

He watches you for a second, trying to read your face and you can’t help but smile after a bit.

“Jake,” You start. “I was just gonna tell you that I feel the same way.”

The smile on Jake’s lips widens before he pulls you in for a kiss. Soft and full of joy, you kiss him back.

He pulls away to look over your face before pecking you again and saying, “Now, let’s go eat so I can have dessert after.”

“Dessert?” You ask, brows knitted. “I don’t see anything out.”

“Who said it was food?”

AHHHHHH NOBODY TOUCH ME LOL anyway… check out my Masterlist!!! 💗💗

[youleftmenochoicebut]

WHEN YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW — james potter x reader.

SUMMARY. — the highlights of your relationship with james fleamont potter

PAIRING. — james potter x fem!reader

WARNINGS. — fuck around and find out; use of Y/N; english isn't my first language;

A/N. — so this is inspired by the masterpiece margaret by ldr!! also, first post, yay!!!

๋࣭ ⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭ first meeting; 6th year (1976)

"if you're gonna jump, i'd love to see you do a double flip." James' voice sounds out through the cold night air, and you can hear him chuckle as you turn around, eyebrow raised.

okay, you're totally surprised to see him here, way past the curfew, on the top floor of the astronomy tower while the wind whooshes rather lightly for the winter season. of course you know who he is, everyone at hogwarts knows him and his group of friends, the marauders. but, being a ravenclaw who doesn't stuck their nose in other people's business, you never had the pleasure of being a victim to one of their pranks.

"i'm not jumping." you reply after a moment, stepping away from the edge as you throw the muggle cigarette you'd been smoking to the floor, stomping it out. you reach your hand up, brushing your hair behind your ears, and for a while you two just stare at each other.

"everyone's already packing for the christmas break." he murmurs, adjusting the glasses sitting on his nose, a smirk playing on his lips and he strolls closer to you, leaning back against the railing. "you're going home, or not?"

your brows furrow, nose crinkling, as you eye him up and down suspiciously. you're pretty sure it's a bad omen that James Potter approached you just like that, out of the blue, but you decide to humor him anyway.

"no, i... i'm staying here." you answer his question, biting down on your lower lip, and you look away with a shrug. "don't you have a game tomorrow, Potter?"

"i do, Y/N. what, you gonna come?" James pushes his hands inside the pockets of his pajama pants, smiling at you, raising his eyebrow. you don't even try to ask how he knows your name, you probably don't want to know either way.

you shake your head and chuckle, the air escaping your mouth looking like smoke in the freezing weather. "quidditch isn't really my thing." you respond, and you chew on your words for a beat before adding. "catch the snitch for me, huh?"

he seems taken aback for a quick second, but lightens up soon enough, and nods eagerly. like a golden retriever, you think. with that thought, you take off, waving him goodbye as you swiftly disappear down the staircase.

๋࣭ ⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭ first date; 6th year (1977)

you stand in front of the only mirror in your dorm, most of your dormmates already out and about except for Sage, who's sitting on her bed and watching you closely as you fiddle with the hem of your dress.

"i look ridiculous." you groan, tugging down the tiny skirt of your outfit, glancing back at Sage. the dress is from a muggle friend of yours, apparently very in fashion now as she stated in her letter, but you can't feel more out of your element. it's not that you don't like clothes like that, it's just that you almost never wear them.

however, you're getting ready for a date with the James Potter, and you want to look your best. oh, and it's Valentine's Day, so you want to somehow prove to everyone who'll see you that you're worthy of James.

"you look great, stop whining." Sage rolls her eyes, munching on her chocolate frog, and she scratches her cat behind his ear.

you sigh, nodding at your friend's aggressive approval, then grab your bag, quickly putting your wand into it, and you saunter over to Sage's bed. you kiss her forehead, chuckling when you hear her let out an ew.

you leave your dormitory, run down the stairs, then sigh again as you get out of the common room, bracing yourself at the challenge of getting to the end of the staircase. and so it takes you some time, time that you spend overthinking almost every interaction you had with James in the two months you have known each other.

when you finally arrive at your meeting spot, your hair's all messed up and tousled, your eyes bloodshot from the wind and lips dry from constantly licking them. instead of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop or the Three Broomsticks, James insisted on you two meeting here. in the Hogwarts grounds, near the Great Lake. usually, even during that time of the year, the grounds were full of students. but now, they're clear, except for a big red blanket on the snowy grass, with James sitting down there. there must be some spell casted around that area that keeps it warm, because James doesn't have his coat on. you approach him with a smile, dropping down next to him, and the heat hits you, making you loose your jacket soon.

for a moment, James just stares at you, mouth agape, his eyes shimmering with pure happiness. "you're beautiful." he breathes out as you nervously tug down your skirt, and a chuckle escapes your lips.

"thank you." your smile widens, and you look at the picnic basket he prepared, smelling the freshly baked cookies and the two bottles of juice. he notices your eyes wandering, his hand reaching out and grabbing a strand of your hair, untangling it gently.

"uh... i made the cookies myself." he murmurs, and when he meets your amused gaze, he shakes his head. "yeah, no i didn't. i asked the kitchen elves to make them. but they were more than happy to do it!"

you laugh heartily, feeling the blush creep up your cheeks at his touch, his hand dropping down and resting over your wrist.

๋࣭ ⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭ first fight; 6th year (1977)

exam season is really fucking with you this year. after last year's OWLs you really thought i'd be easier this year, but clearly not. you're running low on sleep, nourishment, and your patience. almost every waking moment you're spending in classes, doing your assignments or studying in the library with Lily and the other gryffindor girls with whom you've become quite close ever since you started dating James.

well, when it comes to James himself, you haven't seen him much lately. and when you do, it mostly goes one way with you doing both of your homework while James watches you with hearts in the place of pupils, and leaves kisses and touches all over your body.

it's 9.30pm on friday when you're making your way back to your common room after yet another study session in the library, being one of few students out in the hallways at this time. you turn round the corner, your body collapsing against someone else's, and you end up on the floor on your ass. a yelp escapes your mouth, and when you look up ready to shout at the idiot in your way, you realize it's your idiot.

"you look like hell, sweetheart." James smirks, glancing down at you as he leans in with outstretched hand, helping you up smoothly. you let out a huff, rolling your eyes, annoyed out of your goddamn mind, and you step away.

"wow, James, thank you. that's just what a girl wants to hear from her boyfriend after a shitty day." you murmur, wanting to just go past him, because you can feel your temper run short already. but of course, James being James, doesn't allow you to do so. he grasps your wrist as you try to pass him by, and you yank away the moment you feel his hand on yours. "sod off!" you hold your books closer to your chest, frowning momentarily.

"you've been ignoring me, Y/N." he says quietly, and it's probably the first time you hear him so serious and toned down. "i'm trying, i'm making effort, and you're acting like studying is the only thing that matters."

"because, right now, it is! it is to me!" you raise your voice, your hand clasping at the material of your shirt, and you shake your head. "i've been slacking off the whole spring because of you, and now i have all this shit to catch up. i don't have time for nonsense."

you don't even realize the blow that your words are to James, too sleep-deprived to notice the way his lips purse or how he almost seems to physically hurt at your statement.

"is that all you think we are? nonsense?" he whispers, ruffling his curls in an anxious gesture. "cause if that's the case, then i'll stop bothering you."

"no, James, you know that's not what i meant." you groan, shaking your head, and you step closer to him. "i'm sorry. i'm just so constantly tired and... sorry."

๋࣭ ⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭ first 'i love you'; summer of 1977

the sun is hitting your body in all the right angles, a cigarette dangling between your lips, as you lay on your back, on the jetty while the boys play in the water. you, Remus, and Peter have spend the past week at the Potter manor with James and Sirius, and James' parents. it's mid july, summer in all its glory, and you try to live it to the fullest.

you squeal and open your eyes the moment you feel drops of water fall all over you, and you're met with James' athletic figure right in front of you. he kneels down, face to face with you, quickly taking the cigarette from you and taking a drag. rolling your eyes, you sit up, pushing his shoulder playfully. you watch the rest of the marauders with a small smile on your face, Peter standing in the most shallow point of the lake and sipping on some fire whiskey, Sirius and Remus making out with only their heads visible out of the water. James rests his chin on your shoulder, one arm wrapping around your waist and tugging you closer against his chest, and you glance up at him through half-lidded eyes, observing the way he blows out the smoke.

"i love you." you whisper suddenly, as if the thought just struck you, your hand raising to push his glasses up his nose, and you lean in to plant a soft kiss on his cheek.

"yeah?" he replies, his voice having that cocky edge to it, but you can see his heart truly explode, eyes full of love. "i love you, sweetheart."

๋࣭ ⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭ engagement; fall of 1978

after a whole day of unpacking boxes and moving (using magic) furniture around, both you and James are truly exhausted. you’ve just moved into your first house together, having lived with James’ parents for the summer, and despite needing some renovations you are able to live in it without a problem.

as James takes a break on the couch, probably reading this month’s Quidditch Times, you’re trying to cook something for dinner. you’ve decided you don’t want to have a house elf, neither yours or James’ family ever had one, and you two aren’t changing that. but, that means you have to learn how to cook. which actually turns out to be quite the challenge.

two burnt lasagna-lookalikes in, you give up, your face red and eyes filled with frustrated tears. casting a quick cleaning spell, you leave the kitchen and head to the living room, expecting to see James there. but the space is empty.

„Jamie?” you shout out, looking around with a frown gracing your soft features, and after a moment of listening in, you hear him cursing somewhere outside.

and so, with your hands on your hips, already sure he’d just fucked something up, you make your way outside to your garden, through the living room backdoor. you’re immediately taken aback when you see daisy petals just laying around on the grass and it takes you a second to realize it’s a path. growing more and more suspicious you follow it, and it leads you to the small pond in the further corner of the backyard. the rocks around the pond are covered with lit up candles, and James is on one knee next to the wooden bench.

„hi, sweetheart.” he murmurs with a smile, holding a small velvet box in his hand, and as you come closer, you can see the tears already prickling in the corners of his eyes. he opens the box swiftly and the ring nestled inside must be the most beautiful rock you have ever seen. „i… i had a whole speech prepared, you know. about- well, you. us. but right now, looking at you, i cannot remember shit of what i wanted to say. the only thing i do know, and i always will, is that i want to look at you for the rest of my life. i want to see you smile, i want to make you laugh, i want to wipe your tears away. every single day. so, Y/N Y/L/N, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

you drop to your knees almost instantly, a sob escaping you as you’re at eye lever with him, and you just nod. you nod, over and over, letting your tears run down your cheeks, knowing that if you speak you’ll break down completely. James knows that too, and he silently slips the ring onto your waiting finger, bringing your hand to his lips and planting a soft kiss on each finger.

„oh, and before you say anything, i call dibs on the wedding date.” he whispers and you chuckle, pushing your lips against his before responding.

„yeah? so what’s the date?” you tilt your head, just staring at him with the stupidest smile on your face, with tear stained cheeks. you two look like idiots, kneeling in the dewed grass, but honestly you don’t care.

„december 18th.” James replies, clearly proud of himself for the mere idea, and his hands cup your face, thumbs brushing the tears away. „the day we met.”

๋࣭ ⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭ pregnancy; winter of 1980

you’re laying on your shared bed, fingers tapping against the huge curvature of your stomach, feeling your baby kick furiously inside you. you’re waiting for James to come home from work, as you’re already on bed rest, only two weeks away from your due date (which is january 31st)

you’ve been bored out of your fucking mind for the last few days, James putting in more hours at work before he has to take paternity leave when the baby comes, and everything in the house being all done and finished. everything babyproofed, nursery set up and ready, every single thing you could own for a newborn, you have. the only thing that’s left for you is resting and looking pretty, as James had said one evening.

your neck practically snaps from how fast you turn your head the moment you hear James apparate outside your house. you groan, quickly moving your hand to massage the back of your neck, and in just a few minutes James is standing in the doorway to your bedroom, a tired but oh so happy smile on his face.

„hi there, mama.” he mutters softly, dropping his suitcase and his wand onto the desk, getting onto the bed right away. he reaches out, tugging your shirt up to expose your big baby bump that’s covered with stretch marks, and leans in, placing kisses all over your belly. „and hi there, lad or gal. i hope you’ve been good to your mom today. daddy had a long day, you know.”

you smile, running your fingers through James’ curls as he rests his chin on your stomach, hands rubbing at your skin there, eyes set on your protruding belly button. you love when he tells you about his day in that way, talking to the baby about it, a habit you both created somewhere in your fifth month of the pregnancy, when you started showing more and more clearly.

„yeah? anything interesting happen today?” you ask quietly, gently playing with his hair, your tired gaze set on his face at all times.

„i won a bet with Sirius, which one of us would catch the most death eaters in an outing.” he hums after a beat, tapping his finger against your stomach, and both of you chuckle when the baby kicks so hard you can see its tiny foot stretch your skin. „yeah, your uncle Padfoot lost a bet. loser. daddy’s the best at what he’s doing, baby Potter.”

„merlin, you’re teaching our baby unhealthy rivalization and it’s not even born yet.” you roll your eyes, tugging at the ends of his hair teasingly, while he bats his eyelashes up at you.

„after all, they’re a Potter.” he murmurs lovingly, looking at your round and puffy from all the baby weight face as if he’s seen an angel, and he swears to himself that he’s falling in love with you over and over again every time he looks at you. „it’s in their genes, sweetheart.”

[luveline]

May I pretty please request an emergency medicine doctor!reader x Hotch blurb? I’d love to see both of them in careers that are difficult, yet despite that they still manage to be together because they understand each other so much. Maybe something with the rest of the team as well if it’s possible 🫶🏼🥹

Emily used to think Hotch would never be happy again. She’d drive him home after work, pick him up in the mornings, and she’d think about how miserable he was, the kind of misery that hooks you in its grip, has you turning to wine or whiskey just to keep breathing. 

She thought for sure he’d buckle. When Hayley died, he’d have to. How could you not? But he kept going and proved she should’ve had more faith in him, becoming the father Jack deserves, and, surprisingly, your partner. 

“You’re squeezing me too tight,” you mumble, just loud enough for Emily and the others to hear you where Hotch hugs you a few feet from the dinner table. “Why are you trying to break my back?” 

“I haven’t seen you in three weeks.” 

“Eighteen days is not three weeks.” 

“It might as well be.” Hotch peels away from you to give you a once over. Emily’s half jealousy and half fondness, seeing him love someone so obviously. “Are you hungry? I ordered for you.” 

“Super hungry. Do I smell like antiseptic?” 

“No, just soap.” 

“Well, that’s not much better.” 

Hotch puts his arm behind your back and guides you to the table. The team squeeze out hellos between mouthfuls and you take your place at Hotch’s side behind a steaming plate. You’re as ravenous as the rest of them after your long shift; Morgan can hardly get a word out of you for the first ten minutes, though he tries, and you attempt to be polite. Emily nudges him until he gets the hint to stop. 

“Here,” Hotch says, putting a heaping of his food onto your plate with a large spoon. 

“Stop.” You attack his spoon with a fork. 

“It’s fine, you like it more than I do.” 

“Don’t care. You need your energy. I’m going to make you carry me up the stairs home.” 

He’s unintimidated. “Ah.” 

“Ah,” you echo. “You sound so doubtful.” 

Hotch looks like he might try to keep flirting with you, but he gives in quickly, betraying how much he’s missed you with a hand slipping under the table. Emily sees his fingers curl over your knee, averting her gaze with a feigned sip of coke. 

She can deduce the silent question you ask one another about anyways. 

“We’ll have dessert,” you say. We won’t skip out early. “What are you having, Dr. Reid?” 

Hotch orders you three different things, which you eat fast. 

“They’re not feeding you at the hospital?” Rossi asks. 

“Three emergency transfers in twelve hours,” you explain, slouching now into Hotch’s side, one slow inch at a time. “I didn’t have time for much.” 

“That’s not healthy,” Hotch murmurs in concern. 

“I’m sure I can ask any of your friends about your eating habits and find a similar schedule,” you brush him off, raising your gaze to Emily, then Morgan, then Rossi and Reid. Everyone smiles the same way. Hotch is caught, and his laugh jostles your shoulder. 

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘do as I say, and not as I do?’” he asks. 

God, Emily thinks with a huff of a laugh she can’t contain, get a room. 

“He likes that one,” Spencer says. 

“I don’t doubt it.” You lift your lips to his jaw and press a peck to the line of it. One, then two. “Maybe that’s why we've lasted as long as we have. Mutual disregard for our wellbeing.” 

“And a great deal of care for each other,” Rossi says, nodding sagely. “This is why my marriages never last.” 

“Is that why?” Spencer asks. 

“You’ve gotten to be quite the lark.”

“Lark,” Hotch whispers to you. Emily, sitting at his other side, might be the only one who hears, the others distracted by Spencer and Rossi’s ensuing squabble.

“Scoundrel,” you agree. 

“How’s your head now?” 

“It’s gonna be a hundred percent better if you give me that,” you say, pointing hopefully at his full drink. 

He doesn’t hesitate to press it into your hand. Emily would never suspect you hadn’t seen one another for weeks; you move and he follows. You rub your cheek against his shoulder. He touches his nose to your hair, his eyes shuttering closed for one stolen, blissful second. “Missed you,” he says under his breath. 

Emily looks away with a smile. Hotch isn’t hopelessly miserable anymore. 

[smileysuh]

sage & stardust - TEASER

🌙 starring. Kim Mingyu x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. “I think you’re amazing, and good with your hands, and pretty, and I enjoy spending time with you too,” he counters, echoing the entirety of your sentiment. You stare blankly up at the man. It’s clear he doesn’t know what you’re getting at. You wonder how fairies court each other- do they even court each other? Do fairies have sex? Or are they just… you don’t know, blossomed out of flower buds or something?

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, Mingyu holds y/n down by the wrists, size kink, mentions of possible bondage kink, heavy petting, worship, Mingyu is a boobs guy, nipple sucking, fingering, pussy stretching, foreplay, multiple reader orgasms, oral (f receiving), praise, dirty talk, etc… I pet names: (hers) my star. (his) Gyu.  

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 9.6k

🍭 aus. Fairy au, fantasy au, non idol. 

☀️ mlist + an. Okay, so, I’ve written sooo many fics on this blog, and lately I’ve been wanting to try things I haven’t done before. I’ve never done a legit small man fairy dude (who does become normal/large sized later) x yn in a fic before, so bare with me, because these two are such a delightfully domestic pairing. Without further adieu, I give you: blue-collar fairy Mingyu. 

Even you have to admit the space has ambiance. The solarium studio is a lovely part of the house, your favorite in fact, although, tonight, you’re feeling a little shy about your art strewn about.

“Did you paint all of these?” Mingyu asks, approaching your most recent work.

“Yeah, they’re uh, abstracts,” you explain. “I mean, I gather a lot of inspiration from nature, but it’s more a feeling than a specific thing that I like to paint, if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Mingyu nods, leaning down to get a better look at your art. 

“My grandma, she uh, she was an artist too, and so was her mother, and she gave me the house because she knew I needed inspiration-”

“Maybe that’s why she gave you me too.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, and you blink up at the tall man. “Uh… maybe.”

“So this cottage has a long line of artists and tinkerers,” Mingyu concludes.

“The line ended in my mother’s generation,” you sigh.

“That’s not true.” Mingyu looks down at you. “We’re here now.”

☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.7k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

👹 or wait till the fic is posted on tumblr Friday the 22nd of November 2024

🔮 see what’s already available to read on my m.list

interact to be tagged when the fic is posted, reblogs and replies will be prioritized

[pyxxiestyxx]

Class-C

The shot glass sat in front of you, innocuous in appearance.  If you couldn't smell the tang of citrus, if you didn't catch the occasional sparkle suspended in it, you might think it mere water.

In front of you, your affini friend rested her head on her hand.  She practically bled smugness, the leaves around her neck slightly fluffed as if she was preening.  You rolled your eyes, mirroring her posture for the hell of it.

"So this is your bet?  Aren't Class-C's something on the 'dont mess with' list for terrans anyway?"

Her voice was a rolling purr as she answered, "Yes.  This is different.  A heavily diluted solution of a specific strain.  No lasting effects, just the intense feeling of a Class-C dose for about two hours."

The bet was simple: You had to make it through thirty minutes without confessing your love for her, or begging to be her floret.   She thought you couldn't do it.  You thought she was full of shit.  You had plenty of xenodrugs before, of course.  Class A's and E's were fun and relaxing, but ultimately you were still in control of things.

Shrugging nonchalantly, you picked up the shot and threw it back, the sweet flavor hitting your throat and tingling slightly as it went down.  You flipped the glass face down and slammed it onto the table, then looked up at her with a satisfying smirk.  "Easy."

Her smile only widened.  "We'll see." She flipped open her tablet and pressed a timer, starting a countdown clock.  She showed you it had thirty minutes remaining, then flipped it closed.  "No using the time you have left for rallying cries.  Just you, me, and the lovely chemicals your brain is about to be swimming in.  When the alarm rings, I'll administer the counteragent."

You scoffed, leaning back in my chair.  "You didn't even wait until it had begun to kick in?  Wow, you must really be confident."

"Oh, it begins nearly immediately.  Already the drug is interacting with those neurons, mixing in with seratonin and oxytocin and a few other things besides."

You looked at her, doubtful.  "Yeah?  Then how come I don't feel any different?"

"Sweetie, you've leaned halfway across the table already.  Move any further and you're likely to crush that shot glass you slammed down so viciously earlier." She gestured at your posture, causing you to hurriedly sit back into your chair with a blush.

"Shit, I...sorry.  Got carried away." You glanced down at the shot glass, biting your lip as you realized that you *had* been rather violent with it.  You carefully flipped it back upright, wiping the outside clean with your shirt.  "Um.  Sorry."

"Dear, did you just apologize to the glas-"

"NO!" Your face was properly red now.  Oh *stars*, you had!  You had just done something that embarrassing in front of your Best Friend and what if she thought you were silly now?  Would she not want to hang out with you?  You hoped not.  You really enjoyed her compa....wait....

Frowning, you shook your head roughly, slapping your cheeks a little.  It was just the drug.  You were in control.  The drugs were doing this.  But unlike the A or E, it was more...subtle.  or rather, it was potent, but you didn't even realize it until your best friend had pointed it out.  Gosh, she's so kind...

"Um, t-thank you for helping me remember I was drugged." The words felt good to say.  You wanted her to know how much you appreciated her after all.  So you could win the bet!

...

The bet?

"Wait, what happens if I lose?" You realized you had forgotten to ask that before.  Worried, you turned to look at her.

"Well, what would you like to happen, pet~al?" You blushed, realizing it was just like her to wait until you were...compromised before asking this.  Well, jokes on her!  You're still in control.

"Nothing!  I don't want anything to happen.  No new rules, no teasing, and no domestication.  Got it?"

She nodded, sagely.  "Of course.  In that case, I take that to mean that should you win, you'll get all of those wonderful things~"

You sputtered in shock.  "I- no! I don't want to... I'm...you can't be serious."

"Awww, is something wrong?" She smirked, her eyes flashing purples and golds in a way that made your heart melt.  "All you have to do now is lose, then~ Or are you so stubborn, you can't admit that you l~o~v~e me, flower?"

"I-I...you... fucking...."  You felt the indignation mix with the heady joy of her attention, of wanting to give into her, of wanting to beg.  She was trying to goad you.  She wanted you to win now.  She had entirely turned the rules on their head. 

But she also assumed you would take her bait.  You shook your head, biting your lip.  "I...fine.  I admit it."

"Admit what?" She had begun to rise up slightly, her hands clutching the edge of the table.  She was absolutely getting off on this.  You couldn't even meet her eyes, looking away and down.

"I love you?"

"Mmmm....I don't believe you." You could hear the smile in her voice, full of wicked glee.  "Say it louder, for one.  And look me in the eyes~ and don't be afraid to put a little more emotion in it, dearie.  This is a confession, after all~"

You whimpered, managing to drag your eyes up to meet hers.  Reluctantly, you allowed the feelings you had been fighting for several minutes now to wash over you, letting them guide your words.  "I l-love you...I need you..."

"I love you...?" She trailed off, waiting for you to complete it properly.  You wanted to scream, but instead all that came out was "Miss?"

"Dear, it's just a game.  You can use the one you want to use."

"I love you, Mommy."

"And?"

"A-and I want...I need to be your floret.  I need it, please stars I need it.  I...oh gods it's...I..." The feelings crashed through you in waves.

"Go~od job, petal.  You did it."  She slid the table out of the way, stepping into a kneel in front of you.  "You said those mushy gushy feelings!"

You nodded, pleased...until you remembered what that meant.  You weren't going to get anything now.  You had just said so.  Tears sprang up, and you had to stifle a sudden sob.  "I...it's..."

She was lifting you into her arms now, cradling you closely to her chest.  "Shhhh...petal, it's alright.  You didn't lose, silly."

"I...w-what?"

She smiled at you.  "How would love for another ever be seen as losing?  You won, silly."

You won. That made sense to you now.  Especially when She said it.  You beamed up at Her, letting Her wipe the tears away.  "I won..."

"You won!  And guess what that means, dear?"

"I'm...I'm a..."

"You're Mommy's little floret now." She tapped your nose as she cooed, causing you to giggle a bit.  A wiggling little thought in your head popped up, though.

"You tricked me, Mommy!"

"Did I?  Well, you knew we affini never play fair when it comes to cuties like you.  Awfully brave of you to make a bet with me anyway, wasn't it?  Almost like you wan~ted this, darling~" she purred at you, her eyes filled with light and warmth.  You thought you couldn't possibly blush more, but it turns out you definitely could.

"I...noooooooooo!!!  I didn't...I mean....maybe?"

"Silly little flower." She picked up her tablet, turning it back on and dismissing the timer, which had paused as soon as she had closed it.  "Now, let's get you home.  We have a contract to sign~"